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THE   ODD   NUMBER 


Thirteen    Tales 

By 

Guy  de  Maupassant 


THE  TRANSLATION 
Bv    JONATHAN    STURGES 


AN   INTRODUCTION 

By    HENRY   JAMES 


NEW    YORK 
HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  FRANKLIN  SQUARE 


Copyright,  1889,  by  Harper  &  Brothers. 


T 


CONTENTS. 


Introduction vii 

I.  Happiness 3 

II.  A  Coward 19 

III.  The  Wolf 39 

IV.  The  Necklace 53 

V.  The  Piece  of  String 73 

VI.  La  Mere  Sauvage 91 

VII.  Moonlight 109 

VIII.  The  Confession 123 

IX.  On  the  Journey 137 

X.  The  Beggar 153 

XI.  A  Ghost 167 

XII.  Little  Soldier 185 

XIII.  The  Wreck 203 


3008388 


INTRODUCTION. 


GUY    DE    MAUPASSANT. 


It  is  so  embarrassing  to  speak  of  the 
writers  of  one  country  to  the  readers  of  an- 
other that  I  sometimes  wonder  at  the  com- 
placency with  which  the  delicate  task  is  en- 
tered upon.  These  are  cases  in  which  the 
difficult  art  of  criticism  becomes  doubly  diffi- 
cult, inasmuch  as  they  compel  the  critic  to 
forfeit  what  I  may  call  his  natural  advan- 
tages. The  first  of  these  natural  advan- 
tages is  that  those  who  read  him  shall  help 
him  by  taking  a  great  many  things  for  grant- 
ed ;  shall  allow  him  his  general  point  of 
view  and  his  terms — terms  which  he  is  not 
obliged  to  define.  The  relation  of  the  Amer- 
ican reader  to  the  French  writer,  for  in- 
stance, is,  on  the  contrary,  so  indirect  that  it 
gives  him  who  proposes  to  mediate  between 


Vlll  INTRODUCTION. 

them  a  great  deal  more  to  do.  Here  he  has 
in  a  manner  to  define  his  terms  and  estab- 
lish his  point  of  view. 

The  first  simplification  he  is  prompted  to 
effect  is  therefore  to  ask  the  reader  to  make 
the  effort  to  approach  the  author  as  nearly 
as  possible  in  the  supposed  spirit  of  one  of 
his  own  (one  of  the  author's)  fellow-country- 
men. If  the  author  be  French,  remember 
that,  as  it  is  to  Frenchmen  he  addresses  him- 
self, it  is  profitless  to  read  him  without  a 
certain  displacement  of  tradition.  If  he  be 
German,  reflect  in  the  same  way  that  it  was 
far  from  his  business  to  write  in  such  a 
manner  as  would  conciliate  most  the  habits 
and  prejudices  of  the  English-speaking  mind. 
There  are  doubtless  many  people  all  ready 
to  regard  themselves  as  injured  by  a  sug- 
gestion that  they  should  for  the  hour,  and 
even  in  the  decent  privacy  of  the  imagina- 
tion, comport  themselves  as  creatures  of 
alien  (by  which  we  usually  understand  in- 
ferior) race.  To  them  it  is  only  to  be  an- 
swered that  they  had  better  never  touch  a 
foreign  book  on  any  terms,  but  lead  a  con- 
tented life  in  the  homogeneous  medium  of 
the  dear  old  mother-speech.  That  life,  by 
compensation,  they  will  of  course  endeavor 
to  make  as  rich  as  possible;  and  there  is 


INTRODUCTION.  ix 

one  question  they  will  always  be  able  to  ask 
without  getting  an  immediate  answer,  so 
that  the  little  inquiry  will  retain  more  or 
less  its  triumphant  air.  "  Why  should  we 
concern  ourselves  so  much  about  French 
literature,  when  those  who  produce  it  con- 
cern themselves  so  little  about  ours  ?" 

That  strong  argument  will  always  be  in 
order,  especially  among  those  who  do  not 
really  know  how  little  the  French  are,  as 
they  say,  preoccupied  with  English  and 
American  work;  and  on  some  occasions  it 
will  be  supported  by  the  further  inquiry : 
"  Is  not  the  very  perfection  of  French  litera- 
ture to-day  an  exemplary  consequence  of 
the  fact  that  its  principal  exponents  stay 
at  home  and  mind  their  business  —  shut 
their  doors  and  'take  care  of  (soigner)  their 
form  ?  They  don't  waste  time,"  it  will  be 
added,  "  in  superficial  excursions,  nor  have 
they  any  confidence  in  the  lessons  that  are 
to  be  learned  beyond  the  frontier.  Watch 
them  a  little  and  you  will  see  plenty  of  ex- 
amples of  that  want  of  confidence.  They 
accept  their  own  order  of  things  as  their 
limit,  and  in  that  order  they  dig,  as  we 
know,  very  deep.  To  speak  only  of  fiction, 
there  are  multitudes  of  tales  by  English  and 
American  writers  which  profess  to  deal  with 


X  INTRODUCTION. 

French  and  with  Italian  life,  yet  probably 
not  one  of  which,  unless  it  be  George 
Eliot's  'Romola,'  has  any  verisimilitude  or 
any  value  for  Frenchmen  or  for  Italians. 
Few  indeed  are  the  works  of  fiction  which 
they  on  their  side  have  dedicated  to  the 
portraiture  of  the  Anglo-Saxon  world  ;  and 
great,  doubtless,  do  they  deem  the  artistic 
naivete  of  a  race  which  can  content  itself 
with  that  sort  of  stuff  as  a  substitute  for 
thoroughness."  Thus,  it  will  be  seen,  the 
very  "  perfection  "  of  French  literature  (which 
a  hundred  observers  will  also  of  course  con- 
test) may,  oddly  enough,  be  offered  as  a  rea- 
son for  having  nothing  to  do  with  it. 

These  are  the  embroilments  of  a  flirtatioi 
— an  expression  which  is  really  the  onh 
proper  one  to  apply  to  our  interest  in  the 
"  sort  of  stuff "  which  has  enabled  such  a 
writer  as  M.  Guy  de  Maupassant,  whose 
name  I  have  prefixed  to  these  remarks,  to 
be  possible.  To  a  serious  and  well-regu- 
lated union  with  such  a  writer  the  Ameri- 
can public  must,  in  the  nature  of  things, 
shrink  from  pretending ;  but  nothing  need 
prevent  it — not  even  the  sense  of  danger 
(often,  it  must  be  said,  much  rather  an 
incentive),  from  enjoying  those  desultory 
snatches  of  intercourse  which  represent,  in 


INTRODUCTION.  XI 

the  world  of  books,  the  broken  opportuni- 
ties of  Rosina  or  Juliet.  These  young  ladies, 
it  is  true,  eventually  went  much  further,  and 
the  situation  of  the  Anglo  -  Saxon  reader, 
when  craning  over  the  creaking  fourth  or 
fifth  floor  balcony  of  a  translation,  must  be 
understood  as  that  to  which  the  romance  of 
curiosity  would  have  been  restricted  if  the 
Guardian  and  the  Nurse  —  in  other  words 
public  opinion — had  succeeded  in  keeping 
the  affair  within  limits.  M.  de  Maupassant 
is  an  Almaviva  who  strums  his  guitar  with 
the  expectation  of  raising  the  street,  and  he 
performs  most  skilfully  under  those  windows 
from  which  the  flower  of  attention  at  any 
Drice  is  flung  down  to  him.  If  he  is  a  cap- 
tal  specimen  of  the  foreign  writer  with 
whom  the  critic  has  most  trouble,  there 
could  at  the  same  time  be  no  better  exhibi- 
tion of  the  force  which  sets  this  inquiring, 
admiring  spirit  in  motion. 

The  only  excuse  the  critic  has  for  braving 
the  embarrassments  I  have  mentioned  is 
that  he  wishes  to  perform  a  work  of  recom- 
mendation, and  indeed  there  is  no  profit  in 
talking,  in  English,  of  M.  de  Maupassant 
unless  it  be  in  the  sense  of  recommending 
him.  One  should  never  go  out  of  one's 
way  to  differ,  and  translation,  interpretation, 


xii  INTRODUCTION. 

the  business  of  adjusting  to  another  medium, 
are  a  going  out  of  one's  way.  Silence  is 
the  best  disapproval,  and  to  take  people  up, 
with  an  earnest  grip,  only  to  put  them  down, 
is  to  add  to  the  vain  gesticulation  of  the 
human  scene.  That  reader  will  therefore 
be  most  intelligent  who,  if  he  does  not  leave 
M.  de  Maupassant  quite  alone,  makes  him 
a  present,  as  it  were,  of  the  conditions.  My 
purpose  was  to  enumerate  these,  but  I  shall 
not  accomplish  it  properly  if  I  fail  to  recog- 
nize that  they  are  manifold. 

The  first  of  them  to  be  mentioned  is 
doubtless  that  he  came  into  the  literary 
world,  as  he  himself  has  related,  under  the 
protection  of  the  great  Flaubert.  This  was 
but  a  dozen  years  ago,  for  Guy  de  Mau- 
passant belongs,  among  the  distinguished 
Frenchmen  of  his  period,  to  the  new  gener- 
ation. His  celebrity  has  been  gathered  in 
a  short  career,  and  his  experience,  which,  in 
certain  ways,  suggests  the  helping  hand  of 
time,  in  a  rapid  life,  inasmuch  as  he  was 
born  in  1850.  These  things  go  fast  in 
France,  and  there  is  already  a  newer  gener- 
ation still,  with  its  dates  and  its  notabilities  ; 
but  we  need  scarcely  yet  open  a  parenthesis 
for  the  so-called  decadents:  they  have  pro- 
duced no  talent  that  seems  particularly  alive 


INTRODUCTION.  xiii 

— to  do  so  would  indeed  be  a  disloyalty  to 
their  name.  Besides  the  link  of  the  same 
literary  ideal,  Gustave  Flaubert  had  with 
his  young  pupil  a  strong  community  of  lo- 
cal sense — the  sap  of  the  rich  old  Norman 
country  was  in  the  veins  of  both.  It  is  not 
too  much  to  say  that  there  is  a  large  ele- 
ment in  Maupassant  that  the  reader  will 
care  for  in  proportion  as  he  has  a  kindly 
impression  of  the  large,  bountiful  Norman 
land,  with  its  abbeys  and  its  nestling  farms, 
its  scented  hedges  and  hard  white  roads, 
where  the  Sunday  blouse  of  the  rustic  is 
picked  out  in  color,  its  succulent  domestic 
life,  and  its  canny  and  humorous  peasantry. 
There  is  something  in  the  accumulated  her- 
itage of  such  a  province  which  may  well 
have  fed  the  imagination  of  an  artist  whose 
vision  was  to  be  altogether  of  this  life. 

That  is  another  of  M.  de  Maupassant's 
conditions  :  what  is  clearest  to  him  is  the 
immitigability  of  our  mortal  predicament, 
with  its  occasional  beguilements  and  its  in- 
numerable woes.  Flaubert  would  have  been 
sorry  to  blur  this  sharpness,  and  indeed  he 
ministered  to  it  in  helping  to  place  his  young 
friend  in  possession  of  a  style  which  com- 
pletely reflects  it.  Guy  de  Maupassant, 
from  his   own  account    (in  the  preface  to 


XIV  INTRODUCTION. 

"Pierre  et  Jean"),  devoted  much  time  to 
the  moral  that  to  prove  that  you  have  a  first- 
rate  talent  you  must  have  a  first-rate  style. 
He  therefore  learned  to  write,  and  acquired 
an  instrument  which  emits  no  uncertain 
sound.  He  is  wonderfully  concise  and  di- 
rect, yet  at  the  same  time  it  would  be  diffi- 
cult to  characterize  more  vividly.  To  have 
color  and  be  sober  with  it  is  an  ideal,  and 
this  ideal  M.  de  Maupassant  constantly 
touches.  The  complete  possession  of  his 
instrument  has  enabled  him  to  attack  a  great 
variety  of  subjects — usually  within  rigid  lim- 
its of  space.  He  has  accepted  the  necessity 
of  being  brief,  and  has  made  brevity  very 
full,  through  making  it  an  energetic  selec- 
tion. He  has  published  less  than  half  a-doz- 
en  novels  and  more  than  a  hundred  tales, 
and  it  is  upon  his  tales  that  his  reputation 
will  mainly  rest.  The  short  tale  is  infinitely 
relished  in  France,  which  can  show,  in  this 
form,  an  array  of  masterpieces ;  and  no 
small  part  of  Maupassant's  success,  I  think, 
comes  from  his  countrymen's  pride  in  see- 
ing him  add  to  a  collection  which  is  already 
a  national  glory.  He  has  done  so,  as  I  say, 
by  putting  selection  really  upon  its  mettle — 
by  going,  in  every  picture,  straight  to  the 
strongest  ingredients,  and  to  them  alone. 


INTRODUCTION.  XV 

The  turn  of  his  mind  has  helped  him  to 
do  this,  an  extraordinary  perceptive  appara- 
tus of  the  personal,  material,  immediate  sort. 
M.  de  Maupassant  takes  his  stand  on  every- 
thing that  solicits  the  sentient  creature  who 
lives  in  his  senses ;  gives  the  impression 
of  the  active,  independent  observer  who  is 
ashamed  of  none  of  his  faculties,  describes 
what  he  sees,  renders,  with  a  rare  reproduc- 
tion of  tone,  what  he  hears,  and  is  more  anx- 
ious to  see  and  to  hear  than  to  make  sure, 
in  advance,  of  propping  up  some  particular 
theory  of  things.  He  has  indeed  a  theory 
to  the  effect  that  they  are  pretty  bad,  but 
practically  the  air  of  truth  in  the  given  case 
is  almost  never  sacrificed  to  it.  His  strong, 
hard,  cynical,  slightly  cruel  humor  can  scarce- 
ly be  called  a  theory ;  what  one  may  say  of 
this  rather  is  that  his  drollery  is  a  direct  ema- 
nation from  the  facts,  and  especially  from  the 
rural  facts,  which  he  knows  with  extraordi- 
nary knowledge.  His  most  brilliantly  clever 
tales  deal  with  the  life,  pervaded,  for  the 
most  part,  by  a  strong  smell  of  the  barn-yard 
and  the  wine-shop,  of  the  Norman  cottage 
and  market-place.  Such  a  little  picture  as 
"La  Ficelle"  ("The  Piece  of  String'')  is  a 
pure  gem,  so  caught  in  the  fact  are  the  whim- 
sicalities of  the  thick-witted  rustic  world. 


XVI  INTRODUCTION. 

For  the  last  ten  years  M.  de  Maupassant 
has  contributed  an  almost  weekly  nouvelle  to 
some  Parisian  sheet  which  has  allowed  him 
a  luxurious  liberty.  They  have  been  very 
unequal,  too  numerous,  and  occasionally  bad 
enough  to  be  by  an  inferior  hand  (an  inevi- 
table accident,  in  copious  production)  ;  but 
they  have  contained  an  immense  element  of 
delightful  work.  Taken  all  together,  they 
are  full  of  life  (of  life  as  the  author  con- 
ceives it,  of  course— he  is  far  from  having 
taken  its  measure  in  all  directions),  and  be- 
tween the  lines  of  them  we  seem  to  read  of 
that  partly  pleasant  and  wholly  modern  in- 
vention, a  roving  existence  in  which,  for  art, 
no  impression  is  wasted.  M.  de  Maupassant 
travels,  explores,  navigates,  shoots,  goes  up 
in  balloons,  and  writes.  He  treats  of  the 
north  and  of  the  south,  evidently  makes 
"  copy  "  of  everything  that  happens  to  him, 
and,  in  the  interest  of  such  copy  and  such 
happenings,ranges  from  Etretat  to  the  depths 
of  Algeria.  Lately  he  has  given  signs  of 
adding  a  new  cord  to  his  bow — a  silver  cord, 
of  intenser  vibration.  His  two  last  novels, 
"  Pierre  et  Jean  "  and  "  Fort  comme  la 
Mort,"  deal  with  shades  of  feeling  and 
delicacies  of  experience  to  which  he  had 
shown  himself  rather  a  stranger.     They  are 


INTRODUCTION.  XV11 

the  work  of  an  older  man,  and  of  a  man  who 
has  achieved  the  feat  of  keeping  his  talent 
fresh  when  other  elements  have  turned  stale. 
In  default  of  other  convictions  it  may  still, 
for  the  artist,  be  an  adequate  working  faith 
to  turn  out  something  fine.  Guy  de  Mau- 
passant is  a  striking  illustration  of  this  curi- 
ous truth  and  of  the  practical  advantage  of 
having  a  first-rate  ability.  Such  a  gift  may 
produce  surprises  in  the  mere  exercise  of  its 
natural  health.  The  dogmatist  is  never  safe 
with  it. 

LONDON,  August  6,  iJ 


I. 


HAPPINESS. 


HAPPINESS. 


It  was  tea-time  before  the  appearance 
of  the  lamps.  The  villa  commanded  the 
sea ;  the  sun,  which  had  disappeared,  had 
left  the  sky  all  rosy  from  his  passing — rub- 
bed, as  it  were,  with  gold  -  dust ;  and  the 
Mediterranean,  without  a  ripple,  without  a 
shudder,  smooth,  still  shining  under  the  dy- 
ing day,  seemed  like  a  huge  and  polished 
metal  plate. 

Far  off  to  the  right  the  jagged  mount- 
ains outlined  their  black  profile  on  the 
paled  purple  of  the  west. 

We  talked  of  love,  we  discussed  that  old 
subject,  we  said  again  the  things  which  we 
had  said  already  very  often.  The  sweet 
melancholy  of  the  twilight  made  our  words 


4  THE    ODD    NUMBER. 

slower,  caused  a  tenderness  to  waver  in 
our  souls  ;  and  that  word,  "  love,"  which 
came  back  ceaselessly,  now  pronounced  by 
a  strong  man's  voice,  now  uttered  by  the 
frail-toned  voice  of  a  woman,  seemed  to  fill 
the  little  salon,  to  flutter  there  like  a  bird, 
to  hover  there  like  a  spirit. 

Can  one  remain  in  love  for  several  years 
in  succession  ? 

"Yes,"  maintained  some. 

"  No,"  affirmed  others. 

We  distinguished  cases,  we  established 
limitations,  we  cited  examples  ;  and  all,  men 
and  women,  filled  with  rising  and  troubling 
memories,  which  they  could  not  quote,  and 
which  mounted  to  their  lips,  seemed  moved, 
and  talked  of  that  common,  that  sovereign 
thing,  the  tender  and  mysterious  union  of 
two  beings,  with  a  profound  emotion  and  an 
ardent  interest. 

But  all  of  a  sudden  some  one,  whose  eyes 
had  been  fixed  upon  the  distance,  cried  out : 

"  Oh  !     Look  down  there ;  what  is  it  ?" 

On  the  sea,  at  the  bottom  of  the  horizon, 
loomed  up  a  mass,  gray,  enormous  and  con- 
fused. 


HAPPINESS.  5 

The  women  had  risen  from  their  seats, 
and  without  understanding,  looked  at  this 
surprising  thing  which  they  had  never  seen 
before. 

Some  one  said : 

"  It  is  Corsica  !  You  see  it  so  two  or 
three  times  a  year,  in  certain  exceptional 
conditions  of  the  atmosphere,  when  the  air 
is  perfectly  clear,  and  it  is  not  concealed 
by  those  mists  of  sea-fog  which  always  veil 
the  distances." 

We  distinguished  vaguely  the  mountain 
ridges,  we  thought  we  recognized  the  snow 
of  their  summits.  And  every  one  remained 
surprised,  troubled,  almost  terrified,  by  this 
sudden  apparition  of  a  world,  by  this  phan- 
tom risen  from  the  sea.  Maybe  that  those 
who,  like  Columbus,  went  away  across  un- 
discovered oceans  had  such  strange  visions 
as  this. 

Then  said  an  old  gentleman  who  had  not 
yet  spoken  : 

"  See  here  :  I  knew  in  that  island  which 
raises  itself  before  us,  as  if  in  person  to  an- 
swer what  we  said,  and  to  recall  to  me  a  sin- 
gular memory — I  knew,  I  say,  an  admirable 


THE    ODD    NUMBER. 


case  of  love  which  was  true,  of  love  which, 
improbably  enough,  was  happy. 
"  Here  it  is — 


"  Five  years  ago  I  made  a  journey  in  Cor- 
sica. That  savage  island  is  more  unknown 
and  more  distant  from  us  than  America,  even 
though  you  see  it  sometimes  from  the  very 
coasts  of  France,  as  we  have  done  to-day. 

"  Imagine  a  world  which  is  still  chaos, 
imagine  a  storm  of  mountains  separated  by 
narrow  ravines  where  torrents  roll ;  not  a 
single  plain,  but  immense  waves  of  granite, 
and  giant  undulations  of  earth  covered  with 
brushwood  or  with  high  forests  of  chestnut- 
trees  and  pines.  It  is  a  virgin  soil,  unculti- 
vated, desert,  although  you  sometimes  make 
out  a  village,  like  a  heap  of  rocks,  on  the 
summit  of  a  mountain.  No  culture,  no  in- 
dustries, no  art.  One  never  meets  here 
with  a  morsel  of  carved  wood,  or  a  bit  of 
sculptured  stone,  never  the  least  reminder 
that  the  ancestors  of  these  people  had  any 
taste,  whether  rude  or  refined,  for  gracious 
and  beautiful  things.    It  is  this  which  strikes 


HAPPINESS.  7 

you  the  most  in  their  superb  and  hard  coun 
try :    their   hereditary   indifference    to   that 
search  for  seductive  forms  which  is  called  Art. 

"  Italy,  where  every  palace,  full  of  master- 
pieces, is  a  masterpiece  itself  ;  Italy,  where 
marble,  wood,  bronze,  iron,  metals,  and  pre- 
cious stones  attest  man's  genius,  where  the 
smallest  old  things  which  lie  about  in  the 
ancient  houses  reveal  that  divine  care  for 
grace  —  Italy  is  for  us  the  sacred  country 
which  we  love,  because  she  shows  to  us  and 
proves  to  us  the  struggle,  the  grandeur,  the 
power,  and  the  triumph  of  the  intelligence 
which  creates. 

"And,  face  to  face  with  her,  the  savage 
Corsica  has  remained  exactly  as  in  her  ear- 
liest days.  A  man  lives  there  in  his  rude 
house,  indifferent  to  everything  which  does 
not  concern  his  own  bare  existence  or  his 
family  feuds.  And  he  has  retained  the  vices 
and  the  virtues  of  savage  races ;  he  is  vio- 
lent, malignant,  sanguinary  without  a  thought 
of  remorse,  but  also  hospitable,  generous,  de- 
voted, simple,  opening  his  door  to  passers-by, 
and  giving  his  faithful  friendship  in  return  for 
the  least  sign  of  sympathy. 


8  THE   ODD    NUMBER. 

"  So,  for  a  month,  I  had  been  wandering 
over  this  magnificent  island  with  the  sensa- 
tion that  I  was  at  the  end  of  the  world.  No 
more  inns,  no  taverns,  no  roads.  You  gain 
by  mule -paths  hamlets  hanging  up,  as  it 
were,  on  a  mountain-side,  and  commanding 
tortuous  abysses  whence  of  an  evening  you 
hear  rising  the  steady  sound,  the  dull  and 
deep  voice,  of  the  torrent.  You  knock  at 
the  doors  of  the  houses.  You  ask  a  shel- 
ter for  the  night  and  something  to  live  on 
till  the  morrow.  And  you  sit  down  at  the 
humble  board,  and  you  sleep  under  the  hum- 
ble roof,  and  in  the  morning  you  press  the 
extended  hand  of  your  host,  who  has  guided 
you  as  far  as  the  outskirts  of  the  village. 

"  Now,  one  night,  after  ten  hours'  walking, 
I  reached  a  little  dwelling  quite  by  itself  at 
the  bottom  of  a  narrow  valley  which  was 
about  to  throw  itself  into  the  sea  a  league 
farther  on.  The  two  steep  slopes  of  the 
mountain,  covered  with  brush,  with  fallen 
rocks,  and  with  great  trees,  shut  in  this  lam- 
entably sad  ravine  like  two  sombre  walls. 

"  Around  the  cottage  were  some  vines,  a 
little  garden,  and,  farther  off,  several  large 


HAPPINESS. 


chestnut- trees— enough  to  live  on;  in  fact,  a 
fortune  for  this  poor  country. 

"The  woman  who  received  me  was  old, 
severe,  and  neat  —  exceptionally  so.  The 
man,  seated  on  a  straw  chair,  rose  to  salute 
me,  then  sat  down  again  without  saying  a 
word.     His  companion  said  to  me  : 

" '  Excuse  him  ;  he  is  deaf  now.  He  is 
eighty-two  years  old.' 

"  She  spoke  the  French  of  France.  I  was 
surprised. 

"  I  asked  her  : 

"  '  You  are  not  of  Corsica  ?' 

"  She  answered : 

"  '  No ;  we  are  from  the  Continent.  But 
we  have  lived  here  now  fifty  years.' 

"  A  feeling  of  anguish  and  of  fear  seized 
me  at  the  thought  of  those  fifty  years  passed 
in  this  gloomy  hole,  so  far  from  the  cities 
where  human  beings  dwell.  An  old  shep- 
herd returned,  and  we  began  to  eat  the  only 
dish  there  was  for  dinner,  a  thick  soup  in 
which  potatoes,  lard,  and  cabbages  had  been 
boiled  together. 

"When  the  short  repast  was  finished,  I 
went  and  sat  down  before  the  door,  my  heart 


IO  THE    ODD    NUMBER. 

pinched  by  the  melancholy  of  the  mournful 
landscape,  wrung  by  that  distress  which 
sometimes  seizes  travellers  on  certain  sad 
evenings,  in  certain  desolate  places.  It 
seems  that  everything  is  near  its  ending — 
existence,  and  the  universe  itself.  You  per- 
ceive sharply  the  dreadful  misery  of  life,  the 
isolation  of  every  one,  the  nothingness  of  all 
things,  and  the  black  loneliness  of  the  heart 
which  nurses  itself  and  deceives  itself  with 
dreams  until  the  hour  of  death. 

"The  old  woman  rejoined  me,  and,  tort- 
ured by  that  curiosity  which  ever  lives  at  the 
bottom  of  the  most  resigned  of  souls  : 

"  '  So  you  come  from  France  ?'  said  she. 

"  '  Yes  ;  I'm  travelling  for  pleasure.' 

"  '  You  are  from  Paris,  perhaps  ?' 

" '  No,  I  am  from  Nancy.' 

"  It  seemed  to  me  that  an  extraordinary 
emotion  agitated  her.  How  I  saw,  or  rather 
how  I  felt  it,  I  do  not  know. 

"  She  repeated,  in  a  slow  voice  : 

"'You  are  from  Nancy?' 

"  The  man  appeared  in  the  door,  impassi- 
ble, like  all  the  deaf. 

"  She  resumed : 


HAPPINESS.  I  I 

" '  It  doesn't  make  any  difference.  He 
can't  hear.' 

"  Then,  at  the  end  of  several  seconds  : 

"  '  So  you  know  people  at  Nancy  ?' 

"  '  Oh  yes,  nearly  everybody.' 

"  '  The  family  of  Sainte-Allaize  ?' 

"  '  Yes,  very  well ;  they  were  friends  of  my 
father.' 

" '  What  are  you  called  ?' 

"  I  told  her  my  name.  She  regarded  me 
fixedly,  then  said,  in  that  low  voice  which  is 
roused  by  memories  : 

'"Yes,  yes;  I  remember  well.  And  the 
Brisemares,  what  has  become  of  them  ?' 

"  '  They  are  all  dead.' 

'"Ah!  And  the  Sirmonts,  do  you  know 
them  ?' 

"  -Yes,  the  last  of  the  family  is  a  general.' 

"Then  she  said,  trembling  with  emotion, 
with  anguish,  with  I  do  not  know  what,  feel- 
ing confused,  powerful,  and  holy,  with  I  do 
not  know  how  great  a  need  to  confess,  to  tell 
all,  to  talk  of  those  things  which  she  had 
hitherto  kept  shut  in  the  bottom  of  her  heart, 
and  to  speak  of  those  people  whose  name 
distracted  her  soul : 


12  THE   ODD   NUMBER. 

" '  Yes,  Henri  de  Sirmont.  I  know  him 
well.     He  is  my  brother.' 

"  And  I  lifted  my  eyes  at  her,  aghast  with 
surprise.  And  all  of  a  sudden  my  memory 
of  it  came  back. 

"  It  had  caused,  once,  a  great  scandal 
among  the  nobility  of  Lorraine.  A  young 
girl,  beautiful  and  rich,  Suzanne  de  Sir- 
mont, had  run  away  with  an  under-officer  in 
the  regiment  of  hussars  commanded  by  her 
father. 

"  He  was  a  handsome  fellow,  the  son  of  a 
peasant,  but  he  carried  his  blue  dolman  very 
well,  this  soldier  who  had  captivated  his 
colonel's  daughter.  She  had  seen  him,  no- 
ticed him,  fallen  in  love  with  him,  doubt- 
less while  watching  the  squadrons  filing  by. 
But  how  she  had  got  speech  of  him,  how 
they  had  managed  to  see  one  another,  to 
hear  from  one  another ;  how  she  had  dared 
to  let  him  understand  she  loved  him — that 
was  never  known. 

"  Nothing  was  divined,  nothing  suspected. 
One  night  when  the  soldier  had  just  finished 
his  time  of  service,  they  disappeared  to- 
gether.   Her  people  looked  for  them  in  vain. 


HAPPINESS.  13 

They  never  received  tidings,  and  they  con- 
sidered her  as  dead. 

"  So  I  found  her  in  this  sinister  valley. 

"  Then  in  my  turn  I  took  up  the  word  : 

"  '  Yes,  I  remember  well.  You  are  Made- 
moiselle Suzanne.' 

"She  made  the  sign  'yes,'  with  her  head. 
Tears  fell  from  her  eyes.  Then  with  a  look 
showing  me  the  old  man  motionless  on  the 
threshold  of  his  hut,  she  said  : 

"'That  is  he.' 

"And  I  understood  that  she  loved  him 
yet,  that  she  still  saw  him  with  her  bewitch- 
ed eyes. 

" I  asked  : 

"  '  Have  you  at  least  been  happy  ?' 

"  She  answered  with  a  voice  which  came 
from  her  heart : 

"  '  Oh  yes  !  very  happy.  He  has  made  me 
very  happy.     I  have  never  regretted.' 

"  I  looked  at  her,  sad,  surprised,  astound- 
ed by  the  sovereign  strength  of  love  !  That 
rich  young  lady  had  followed  this  man,  this 
peasant.  She  was  become  herself  a  peasant 
woman.  She  had  made  for  herself  a  life 
without  charm,  without  luxury,  without  del- 


14  THE   ODD    NUMRKR. 

icacyof  any  kind,  she  had  stooped  to  simple 
customs.  And  she  loved  him  yet.  She  was 
become  the  wife  of  a  rustic,  in  a  cap,  in  a 
cloth  skirt.  Seated  on  a  straw-bottomed 
chair,  she  ate  from  an  earthen-ware  dish,  at 
a  wooden  table,  a  soup  of  potatoes  and  of 
cabbages  with  lard.  She  slept  on  a  mat- 
tress by  his  side. 

"  She  had  never  thought  of  anything  but 
of  him.  She  had  never  regretted  her  jewels, 
nor  her  fine  dresses,  nor  the  elegancies  of 
life,  nor  the  perfumed  warmth  of  the  cham- 
bers hung  with  tapestry,  nor  the  softness  of 
the  down-beds  where  the  body  sinks  in  for 
repose.  She  had  never  had  need  of  any- 
thing but  him ;  provided  he  was  there,  she 
desired  nothing. 

"  Still  young,  she  had  abandoned  life  and 
the  world  and  those  who  had  brought  her 
up,  and  who  had  loved  her.  She  had  come, 
alone  with  him,  into  this  savage  valley.  And 
he  had  been  everything  to  her,  all  that  one 
desires,  all  that  one  dreams  of,  all  that  one 
waits  for  without  ceasing,  all  that  one  hopes 
for  without  end.  He  had  filled  her  life  with 
happiness  from  the  one  end  to  the  other. 


HAPPINESS.  15 

"  She  could  not  have  been  more  happy. 

"  And  all  the  night,  listening  to  the  hoarse 
breathing  of  the  old  soldier  stretched  on  his 
pallet  beside  her  who  had  followed  him  so 
far,  I  thought  of  this  strange  and  simple 
adventure,  of  this  happiness  so  complete, 
made  of  so  very  little. 

"  And  I  went  away  at  sunrise,  after  having 
pressed  the  hands  of  that  aged  pair." 


The  story-teller  was  silent.  A  woman 
said  : 

"  All  the  same,  she  had  ideals  which  were 
too  easily  satisfied,  needs  which  were  too 
primitive,  requirements  which  were  too  sim- 
ple.    She  could  only  have  been  a  fool." 

Another  said,  in  a  low,  slow  voice,  "  What 
matter  !  she  was  happy." 

And  down  there  at  the  end  of  the  horizon, 
Corsica  was  sinking  into  the  night,  return- 
ing gently  into  the  sea,  blotting  out  her 
great  shadow,  which  had  appeared  as  if  in 
person  to  tell  the  story  of  those  two  humble 
lovers  who  were  sheltered  by  her  coasts. 


II. 

A   COWARD. 


A   COWARD. 


In  society  they  called  him  "the  hand- 
some Signoles."  His  name  was  Viscount 
Gontran  Joseph  de  Signoles. 

An  orphan  and  the  possessor  of  a  suffi- 
cient fortune,  as  the  saying  goes,  he  cut  a 
dash.  He  had  a  fine  figure  and  bearing, 
enough  conversation  to  make  people  credit 
him  with  cleverness,  a  certain  natural  grace, 
an  air  of  nobility  and  of  pride,  a  gallant 
mustache,  and  a  gentle  eye — a  thing  which 
pleases  women. 

In  the  drawing-rooms  he  was  in  great  re- 
quest, much  sought  after  as  a  partner  for  the 
waltz ;  and  he  inspired  among  men  that  smil- 
ing hatred  which  they  always  cherish  for  oth- 
ers of  an   energetic  figure.      He  passed  a 


20  THE    ODD    NUMBER. 

happy  and  tranquil  life,  in  a  comfort  of 
mind  which  was  most  complete.  It  was 
known  that  he  was  a  good  fencer,  and  as  a 
pistol-shot  even  better. 

"  If  ever  I  fight  a  duel,"  said  he,  "  I  shall 
choose  pistols.  With  that  weapon  I  am 
sure  of  killing  my  man." 

Now,  one  night,  having  accompanied  two 
young  ladies,  his  friends,  escorted  by  their 
husbands,  to  the  theatre,  he  invited  them 
all  after  the  play  to  take  an  ice  at  Tortoni's. 
They  had  been  there  for  several  minutes, 
when  he  perceived  that  a  gentleman  seated 
at  a  neighboring  table  was  staring  obsti- 
nately' at  one  of  his  companions.  She 
seemed  put  out,  uneasy,  lowered  her  head. 
At  last  she  said  to  her  husband : 

"  There  is  a  man  who  is  looking  me  out  of 
countenance.     I  do  not  know  him ;  do  you  ?" 

The  husband,  who  had  seen  nothing, 
raised  his  eyes,  but  declared  : 

"No,  not  at  all." 

The  young  lady  continued,  half  smiling, 
half  vexed 

"  It  is  very  unpleasant ;  that  man  is  spoil- 
ing my  ice." 


A   COWARD.  21 

Her  husband  shrugged  his  shoulders  : 

"  Bast !  don't  pay  any  attention  to  it.  If 
we  had  to  occupy  ourselves  about  every  in- 
solent fellow  that  we  meet  we  should  never 
have  done." 

But  the  viscount  had  risen  brusquely.  He 
could  not  allow  that  this  stranger  should 
spoil  an  ice  which  he  had  offered.  It  was 
to  him  that  this  insult  was  addressed,  be- 
cause it  was  through  him  and  on  his  ac- 
count that  his  friends  had  entered  this  cafe. 
So  the  matter  concerned  him  only. 

He  advanced  towards  the  man  and  said 
to  him  : 

"  You  have,  sir,  a  manner  of  looking  at 
those  ladies  which  I  cannot  tolerate.  I  beg 
of  you  to  be  so  kind  as  to  cease  from  this 
insistence." 

The  other  answered  : 

"  You  are  going  to  mind  your  own  busi- 
ness, curse  you." 

The  viscount  said,  with  close -pressed 
teeth : 

"  Take  care,  sir,  you  will  force  me  to  pass 
bounds." 

The  gentleman  answered  but  one  word,  a 


22  THE   ODD   NUMBER. 

foul  word,  which  rang  from  one  end  of  the 
cafd  to  the  other,  and,  like  a  metal  spring, 
caused  every  guest  to  execute  a  sudden 
movement.  All  those  whose  backs  were 
turned  wheeled  round ;  all  the  others  raised 
their  heads ;  three  waiters  pivoted  upon 
their  heels  like  tops ;  the  two  ladies  at  the 
desk  gave  a  jump,  then  turned  round  their 
whole  bodies  from  the  waists  up,  as  if  they 
had  been  two  automata  obedient  to  the 
same  crank. 

A  great  silence  made  itself  felt.  Then, 
on  a  sudden,  a  dry  sound  cracked  in  the 
air.  The  viscount  had  slapped  his  adver- 
sary's face.  Every  one  rose  to  interfere. 
Cards  were  exchanged  between  the  two. 


When  the  viscount  had  reached  home  he 
paced  his  room  for  several  minutes  with 
great,  quick  strides.  He  was  too  much  agi- 
tated to  reflect  at  all.  One  single  idea  was 
hovering  over  his  mind — "a  duel  " — without 
arousing  in  him  as  yet  an  emotion  of  any 
sort.  He  had  done  that  which  he  ought  to 
have  done ;  he  had  shown  himself  to  be  that 


A   COWARD.  23 

which  he  ought  to  be.  People  would  talk 
about  it,  they  would  praise  him,  they  would 
congratulate  him.  He  repeated  in  a  loud 
voice,  speaking  as  one  speaks  when  one's 
thoughts  are  very  much  troubled  : 
"  What  a  brute  the  fellow  was  !" 
Then  he  sat  down  and  began  to  reflect. 
He  must  find  seconds,  the  first  thing  in  the 
morning.  Whom  should  he  choose  ?  He 
thought  over  those  men  of  his  acquaintance 
who  had  the  best  positions,  who  were  the 
most  celebrated.  He  finally  selected  the 
Marquis  de  la  Tour-Noire,  and  the  Colonel 
Bourdin,  a  nobleman  and  a  soldier.  Very 
good  indeed !  Their  names  would  sound  well 
in  the  papers.  He  perceived  that  he  was 
thirsty,  and  he  drank,  one  after  another, 
three  glasses  of  water ;  then  he  began  again 
to  walk  up  and  down  the  room.  He  felt  him- 
self full  of  energy.  If  he  blustered  a  little, 
if  he  showed  himself  resolute  at  all  points, 
if  he  demanded  rigorous  and  dangerous 
conditions,  if  he  insisted  on  a  serious  duel, 
very  serious,  terrible,  his  opponent  would 
probably  withdraw  and  make  apologies. 
He   picked   up  the  card   which   he   had 


24  THE   ODD    NUMBER. 

pulled  out  of  his  pocket  and  thrown  on  the 
table,  and  he  reread  it  with  a  single  glance. 
He  had  already  done  so  at  the  cafe  and 
in  the  cab,  by  the  glimmer  of  every  street 
lamp,  on  his  way  home.  "Georges  Lamil, 
51  Rue  Moncey."     Nothing  more. 

He  examined  these  assembled  letters, 
which  seemed  to  him  mysterious,  and  full 
of  a  confused  meaning.  Georges  Lamil  ? 
Who  was  this  man?  What  had  he  been 
about  ?  Why  had  he  stared  at  that  woman 
in  such  a  way?  Was  it  not  revolting  that 
a  stranger,  an  unknown,  should  so  come 
and  trouble  your  life,  all  on  a  sudden, 
simply  because  he  had  been  pleased  to  fix 
his  eyes  insolently  upon  a  woman  that  you 
knew?  And  the  viscount  repeated  yet  again, 
in  a  loud  voice  : 

"What  a  brute!" 

Then  he  remained  motionless,  upright, 
thinking,  his  look  ever  planted  on  the  card. 
A  rage  awoke  in  him  against  this  piece  of 
paper,  an  anger  full  of  hate  in  which  was 
mixed  a  strange,  uneasy  feeling.  It  was 
stupid,  this  whole  affair !  He  took  a  little 
penknife  which  lay  open  to  his  hand,  and 


A   COWARD.  25 

pricked  it  into  the  middle  of  the  printed 
name,  as  if  he  had  poniarded  some  one. 

However,  they  must  fight !  He  consid- 
ered himself  as  indeed  the  insulted  party. 
And,  having  thus  the  right,  should  he  choose 
the  pistol  or  the  sword  ?  With  the  sword 
he  risked  less ;  but  with  the  pistol  he  had 
the  chance  of  making  his  adversary  with- 
draw. It  is  very  rare  that  a  duel  with  swords 
proves  mortal,  a  mutual  prudence  preventing 
the  combatants  from  engaging  near  enough 
for  the  point  of  a  rapier  to  enter  very  deep. 
With  the  pistol  he  risked  his  life  seriously; 
but  he  might  also  come  out  of  the  affair  with 
all  the  honors  of  the  situation,  and  without 
going  so  far  as  an  actual  meeting. 

He  said : 

"  I  must  be  firm.     He  will  be  afraid." 

The  sound  of  his  voice  made  him  trem 
ble,  and  he  looked  about  him.    He  felt  him- 
self very  nervous.     He  drank  another  glass 
of  water,  then  began  to  undress  himself  to 
go  to  bed. 

As  soon  as  he  was  in  bed,  he  blew  out 
the  light  and  shut  his  eyes. 

He  thought : 


26  THE   ODD    NUMBER. 

"  I've  got  all  day  to-morrow  to  attend  to  my 
affairs.   I'd  better  sleep  first  so  as  to  be  calm." 

He  was  very  warm  under  the  bedclothes, 
but  he  could  not  manage  to  doze  off.  He 
turned  and  twisted,  remained  five  minutes 
on  his  back,  then  placed  himself  on  his  left 
side,  then  rolled  over  to  his  right. 

He  was  still  thirsty.  He  got  up  again  to 
drink.     Then  an  anxiety  seized  him  : 

"  Shall  I  be  afraid  ?" 

Why  did  his  heart  fall  to  beating  so  mad- 
ly at  each  of  the  well-known  noises  of  his 
chamber  ?  When  the  clock  was  about  to 
strike,  the  little  grinding  sound  of  the  spring 
which  stands  erect,  caused  him  to  give  a 
start ;  and  for  several  seconds  after  that  he 
was  obliged  to  open  his  mouth  to  breathe, 
he  remained  so  much  oppressed. 

He  set  himself  to  reasoning  with  himself 
upon  the  possibility  of  this  thing: 

"  Shall  I  be  afraid  ?" 

No,  certainly  not,  he  would  not  be  afraid, 
because  he  was  resolute  to  go  to  the  end, 
because  he  had  his  will  firmly  fixed  to  fight 
and  not  to  tremble.  But  he  felt  so  deeply 
troubled  that  he  asked  himself : 


A   COWARD.  27 

"  Can  a  man  be  afraid  in  spite  of  him  ?" 

And  this  doubt  invaded  him,  this  uneasi- 
ness, this  dread.  If  some  force  stronger 
than  his  will,  if  some  commanding,  and  irre- 
sistible power  should  conquer  him,  what 
would  happen?  Yes,  what  could  happen? 
He  should  certainly  appear  upon  the  field, 
since  he  willed  to  do  it.  But  if  he  trembled  ? 
But  if  he  fainted  ?  And  he  thought  of  his 
situation,  of  his  reputation,  of  his  name. 

And  a  curious  necessity  seized  him  on  a 
sudden  to  get  up  again  and  look  at  himself 
in  the  mirror.  He  relit  his  candle.  When 
he  perceived  his  face  reflected  in  the  pol- 
ished glass  he  hardly  recognized  himself, 
and  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  had  never 
seen  this  man  before.  His  eyes  appeared 
enormous ;  and  he  was  pale,  surely  he  was 
pale,  very  pale. 

He  remained  upright  before  the  mirror. 
He  put  out  his  tongue  as  if  to  test  the 
state  of  his  health,  and  all  on  a  sudden  this 
thought  entered  into  him  after  the  fashion 
of  a  bullet : 

"  The  day  after  to-morrow,  at  this  time,  I 
shall  perhaps  be  dead." 


28  THE   ODD   NUMBER. 

And  his  heart  began  again  to  beat  furi- 
ously. 

"  The  day  after  to-morrow,  at  this  time,  I 
shall  perhaps  be  dead.  This  person  before 
me,  this  '  I '  which  I  see  in  this  glass,  will 
exist  no  longer.  What !  here  I  am,  I  am 
looking  at  myself,  I  feel  myself  to  live,  and 
in  twenty-four  hours  I  shall  be  laid  to  rest 
upon  this  couch,  dead,  my  eyes  shut,  cold, 
inanimate,  gone." 

He  turned  towards  his  bed  and  he  dis- 
tinctly saw  himself  extended  on  the  back  in 
the  same  sheets  which  he  had  just  left. 
He  had  the  hollow  face  which  dead  men 
have,  and  that  slackness  to  the  hands  which 
will  never  stir  more. 

So  he  grew  afraid  of  his  bed,  and,  in  or- 
der not  to  look  at  it  again,  he  passed  into 
his  smoking-room.  He  took  a  cigar  mechan- 
ically, lit  it,  and  again  began  to  walk  the 
room.  He  was  cold ;  he  went  towards  the 
bell  to  wake  his  valet;  but  he  stopped,  his 
hand  lifted  towards  the  bell-rope  : 

"That  fellow  will  see  that  I  am  afraid." 

And  he  did  not  ring,  he  made  the  fire 
himself.     When  his  hands  touched  anything 


A   COWARD.  29 

they  trembled  slightly,  with  a  nervous  shak- 
ing. His  head  wandered  ;  his  troubled 
thoughts  became  fugitive,  sudden,  melan- 
choly; an  intoxication  seized  on  his  spirit 
as  if  he  had  been  drunk. 

And  ceaselessly  he  asked  himself  : 

"  What  shall  I  do  ?  What  will  become  of 
me?" 

His  whole  body  vibrated,  jerky  tremblings 
ran  over  it ;  he  got  up,  and  approaching  the 
window,  he  opened  the  curtains. 

The  day  was  coming,  a  day  of  summer. 
The  rosy  sky  made  rosy  the  city,  the  roofs, 
and  the  walls.  A  great  fall  of  tenuous  light, 
like  a  caress  from  the  rising  sun,  enveloped 
the  awakened  world ;  and,  with  this  glimmer, 
a  hope  gay,  rapid,  brutal,  seized  on  the  heart 
of  the  viscount !  Was  he  mad  to  let  himself 
be  so  struck  down  by  fear,  before  anything 
had  even  been  decided,  before  his  seconds 
had  seen  those  of  this  Georges  Lamil,  be- 
fore he  yet  knew  if  he  was  going  to  fight 
at  all  ? 

He  made  his  toilet,  dressed  himself,  and 
left  the  house  with  a  firm  step. 


30  THE   ODD    NUMBER. 

He  repeated  to  himself,  while  walking : 

"  I  must  be  decided,  very  decided.  I 
must  prove  that  I  am  not  afraid." 

His  seconds,  the  marquis  and  the  colonel, 
put  themselves  at  his  disposition,  and  after 
having  pressed  his  hands  energetically,  dis- 
cussed the  conditions  of  the  meeting. 

The  colonel  asked  : 

"You  want  a  serious  duel  ?" 

The  viscount  answered  : 

"  Very  serious." 

The  marquis  took  up  the  word. 

"You  insist  on  pistols  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  Do  you  leave  us  free  to  settle  the  rest  ?" 

The  viscount  articulated  with  a  dry,  jerky 
voice  : 

"Twenty  paces,  firing  at  the  word,  lifting 
the  arm  instead  of  lowering  it.      Exchange 
of  shots  until  some  one  is  badly  wounded." 
"  The  colonel  declared,  in  a  satisfied  tone  : 

"Those  are  excellent  conditions.  You 
are  a  good  shot ;  the  chances  are  all  in  your 
favor." 

And  they  separated.  The  viscount  re- 
turned home  to  wait  for  them.     His  agita- 


A   COWARD.  31 

tion,  which  had  been  temporarily  calmed, 
was  now  increasing  with  every  moment.  He 
felt  along  his  arms,  along  his  legs,  in  his 
chest,  a  kind  of  quivering,  a  kind  of  contin- 
uous vibration;  he  could  not  stay  in  one 
place,  neither  sitting  down  nor  standing  up. 
He  had  no  longer  a  trace  of  moisture  in  his 
mouth,  and  he  made  at  every  instant  a  noisy 
movement  of  the  tongue  as  if  to  unglue  it 
from  his  palate. 

He  tried  to  take  his  breakfast,  but  he 
could  not  eat.  Then  he  thought  of  drinking 
in  order  to  give  himself  courage,  and  had  a 
decanter  of  rum  brought  him,  from  which  he 
gulped  down,  one  after  the  other,  six  little 
glasses. 

A  warmth,  like  a  burn,  seized  on  him. 
It  was  followed  as  soon  by  a  giddiness  of 
the  soul.     He  thought : 

"  I  know  the  way.  Now  it  will  go  all 
right." 

But  at  the  end  of  an  hour  he  had  emptied 
the  decanter,  and  his  state  of  agitation  was 
become  again  intolerable.  He  felt  a  wild 
necessity  to  roll  upon  the  ground,  to  cry,  to 
bite.     Evening  fell. 


32  THE   ODD    NUMBER. 

The  sound  of  the  door-bell  caused  him 
such  a  feeling  of  suffocation  that  he  had  not 
the  strength  to  rise  to  meet  his  seconds. 

He  did  not  even  dare  to  talk  to  them  any 
longer — to  say  "How  do  you  do?"  to  pro- 
nounce a  single  word,  for  fear  lest  they  di- 
vine all  from  the  alteration  in  his  voice. 

The  colonel  said  : 

"  Everything  is  settled  according  to  the 
conditions  which  you  fixed.  Your  opponent 
at  first  insisted  on  the  privileges  of  the  of- 
fended party,  but  he  yielded  almost  imme- 
diately, and  has  agreed  to  everything.  His 
seconds  are  two  officers. 

The  viscount  said  : 

"Thank  you." 

The  marquis  resumed  : 

"  Excuse  us  if  we  only  just  run  in  and 
out,  but  we've  still  a  thousand  things  to  do. 
We  must  have  a  good  doctor,  because  the 
duel  is  not  to  stop  till  after  some  one  is 
badly  hit,  and  you  know  there's  no  trifling 
with  bullets.  A  place  must  be  appointed  near 
some  house  where  we  can  carry  the  wound- 
ed one  of  the  two,  if  it  is  necessary,  etc. ;  it 
will  take  us  quite  two  or  three  hours  more." 


A   COWARD.  33 

The  viscount  articulated  a  second  time  : 

"  Thank  you." 

The  colonel  asked  : 

"  You're  all  right  ?     You're  calm  ?" 

"  Yes,  quite  calm,  thanks." 

The  two  men  retired. 


When  he  felt  himself  alone  again,  it 
seemed  to  him  that  he  was  going  mad.  His 
servant  having  lit  the  lamps,  he  sat  down 
before  his  table  to  write  some  letters.  Af- 
ter tracing  at  the  top  of  a  page,  "  This  is 
my  Will,"  he  got  up  again  and  drew  off, 
feeling  incapable  of  putting  two  ideas  to- 
gether, of  taking  a  single  resolution,  of  de- 
ciding anything  at  all. 

And  so  he  was  going  to  fight  a  duel !  He 
could  no  longer  escape  that.  What  could 
be  passing  within  him  ?  He  wanted  to  fight, 
he  had  that  intention  and  that  resolution 
firmly  fixed ;  and  he  felt  very  plainly  that, 
notwithstanding  all  the  effort  of  his  mind 
and  all  the  tension  of  his  will,  he  would  not 
be  able  to  retain  strength  enough  to  go  as 
far  as  the  place  of  the  encounter.  He  tried 
3 


34  THE   ODD    NUMBER. 

to  fancy  the  combat,  his  own  attitude,  and 
the  bearing  of  his  adversary. 

From  time  to  time,  his  teeth  struck  against 
one  another  in  his  mouth  with  a  little  dry 
noise.  He  tried  to  read,  and  took  up  de 
Chateauvillard's  duelling  code.  Then  he 
asked  himself : 

"  My  adversary,  has  he  frequented  the 
shooting  -  galleries  ?  Is  he  well  known  ? 
What's  his  class  ?     How  can  I  find  out  ?" 

He  remembered  the  book  by  Baron  de 
Vaux  upon  pistol-shooters,  and  he  searched 
through  it  from  one  end  to  the  other. 
Georges  Lamil  was  not  mentioned.  But, 
however,  if  the  man  had  not  been  a  good 
shot,  he  would  not  have  accepted  immedi- 
ately that  dangerous  weapon  and  those  con- 
ditions, which  were  mortal. 

His  pistol-case  by  Gastinne  Renette  lay 
on  a  little  round  table.  As  he  passed  he 
opened  it  and  took  out  one  of  the  pistols, 
then  placed  himself  as  if  to  shoot,  and 
raised  his  arm  ;  but  he  trembled  from  head 
to  foot,  and  the  barrel  shook  in  all  direc- 
tions. 

Then  he  said : 


A   COWARD.  35 

"It  is  impossible.  I  cannot  fight  like 
this." 

At  the  end  of  the  barrel  he  regarded  that 
little  hole,  black  and  deep,  which  spits  out 
death;  he  thought  of  dishonor,  of  the  whis- 
pers in  the  clubs,  of  the  laughter  in  the 
drawing-rooms,  of  the  disdain  of  women,  of 
the  allusions  in  the  papers,  of  the  insults 
which  would  be  thrown  at  him  by  cowards. 

He  went  on  staring  at  the  pistol,  and 
raising  the  hammer,  he  suddenly  saw  a 
priming  glitter  beneath  it  like  a  little  red 
flame.  The  pistol  had  been  left  loaded,  by 
chance,  by  oversight.  And  he  experienced 
from  that  a  confused  inexplicable  joy. 

If  in  the  presence  of  the  other  he  had  not 
the  calm  and  noble  bearing  which  is  fit,  he 
would  be  lost  forever.  He  would  be  spot- 
ted, marked  with  a  sign  of  infamy,  hunted 
from  society.  And  he  should  not  have  that 
calm  and  bold  bearing ;  he  knew  it,  he  felt 
it.  And  yet  he  was  really  brave,  because  he 
wanted  to  fight !  He  was  brave,  because — . 
The  thought  which  just  grazed  him  did  not 
even  complete  itself  in  his  spirit ,  but,  open- 
ing his  mouth  wide,  he  brusquely  thrust  the 


36  THE   ODD   NUMBER. 

pistol -barrel  into  the  very  bottom  of  his 
throat  and  pressed  upon  the  trigger.  .  .  . 

When  his  valet  ran  in,  attracted  by  the 
report,  he  found  him  dead,  on  his  back.  A 
jet  of  blood  had  spattered  the  white  paper 
on  the  table  and  made  a  great  red  stain  be- 
low the  four  words  : 

"This  is  my  Will." 


III. 


THE    WOLF 


THE    WOLF. 


Here  is  what  the  old  Marquis  d'Arville 
told  us  towards  the  end  of  St.  Hubert's 
dinner  at  the  house  of  the  Baron  des  Ra- 
vels. 

We  had  killed  a  stag  that  day.  The  mar- 
quis was  the  only  one  of  the  guests  who  had 
not  taken  any  part  in  this  chase ;  for  he  nev- 
er hunted. 

All  through  that  long  repast  we  had 
talked  about  hardly  anything  but  the  slaugh- 
ter of  animals.  The  ladies  themselves  were 
interested  in  tales  sanguinary  and  often  un- 
likely, and  the  orators  imitated  the  attacks 
and  the  combats  of  men  against  beasts, 
raised  their  arms,  romanced  in  a  thunder- 


ing voice. 


4<D  THE   ODD    NUMBER. 

M.  d'Arville  talked  well,  with  a  certain 
poetry  of  style  somewhat  high-sounding,  but 
full  of  effect.  He  must  have  repeated  this 
story  often,  for  he  told  it  fluently,  not  hesi- 
tating on  words,  choosing  them  with  skill  to 
produce  a  picture — 

Gentlemen,  I  have  never  hunted,  neither 
did  my  father,  nor  my  grandfather,  nor  my 
great-grandfather.  This  last  was  the  son 
of  a  man  who  hunted  more  than  all  of  you 
put  together.  He  died  in  1764.  I  will  tell 
you  how. 

His  name  was  Jean.  He  was  married, 
father  of  that  child  who  became  my  ances- 
tor, and  he  lived  with  his  younger  brother, 
Francois  d'Arville,  in  our  castle  in  Lorraine, 
in  the  middle  of  the  forest. 

Francois  d'Arville  had  remained  a  bach- 
elor for  love  of  the  chase. 

They  both  hunted  from  one  end  of  the 
year  to  the  other,  without  repose,  without 
stopping,  without  fatigue.  They  loved  only 
that,  understood  nothing  else,  talked  only 
of  that,  lived  only  for  that. 

They  had  at  heart  that  one  passion,  which 
was  terrible  and  inexorab'e.     It  consumed 


THE   WOLF.  41 

them,  having  entirely  invaded  them,  leaving 
place  for  no  other. 

They  had  given  orders  that  they  should 
not  be  interrupted  in  the  chase,  for  any  rea- 
son whatever.  My  great-grandfather  was 
born  while  his  father  was  following  a  fox. 
and  Jean  d'Arville  did  not  stop  his  pur- 
suit, but  he  swore  :  "  Name  of  a  name,  that 
rascal  there  might  have  waited  till  after  the 
view-halloo !" 

His  brother  Franc,ois  showed  himself  still 
more  infatuated.  On  rising  he  went  to  see 
the  dogs,  then  the  horses,  then  he  shot  little 
birds  about  the  castle  until  the  moment  for 
departing  to  hunt  down  some  great  beast. 

In  the  country-side  they  were  called  M.  le 
Marquis  and  M.  le  Cadet,  the  nobles  then 
not  doing  at  all  like  the  chance  nobility  of 
our  time,  which  wishes  to  establish  an  he- 
reditary hierarchy  in  titles ;  for  the  son  of  a 
marquis  is  no  more  a  count,  nor  the  son  of 
a  viscount  a  baron,  than  the  son  of  a  gen- 
eral is  a  colonel  by  birth.  But  the  mean 
vanity  of  to-day  finds  profit  in  that  arrange- 
ment. 

I  return  to  my  ancestors. 


42  THE    ODD    NUMBER. 

They  were,  it  seems,  immeasurably  tall, 
bony,  hairy,  violent,  and  vigorous.  The 
younger,  still  taller  than  the  older,  had  a 
voice  so  strong  that,  according  to  a  legend 
of  which  he  was  proud,  all  the  leaves  of  the 
forests  shook  when  he  shouted. 

And  when  they  both  mounted  to  go  off 
to  the  hunt,  that  must  have  been  a  superb 
spectacle  to  see  those  two  giants  straddling 
their  huge  horses. 

Now  towards  the  midwinter  of  that  year, 
1764,  the  frosts  were  excessive,  and  the 
wolves  became  ferocious. 

They  even  attacked  belated  peasants, 
roamed  at  night  about  the  houses,  howled 
from  sunset  to  sunrise,  and  depopulated  the 
stables. 

And  soon  a  rumor  began  to  circulate. 
People  talked  of  a  colossal  wolf,  with  gray 
fur,  almost  white,  who  had  eaten  two  chil- 
dren, gnawed  off  a  woman's  arm,  strangled 
all  the  dogs  of  the  garde  du  pays,  and  pen- 
etrated without  fear  into  the  farm-yards  to 
come  snuffling  under  the  doors.  The  peo- 
ple in  the  houses  affirmed  that  they  had  felt 
his  breath,  and  that  it  made  the  flame  of  the 


THE   WOLF.  43 

lights  flicker.  And  soon  a  panic  ran  through 
all  the  province.  No  one  dared  go  out  any 
more  after  night-fall.  The  shades  seemed 
haunted  by  the  image  of  the  beast. 

The  brothers  d'Arville  resolved  to  find 
and  kill  him,  and  several  times  they  assem- 
bled all  the  gentlemen  of  the  country  to  a 
great  hunting. 

In  vain.  They  might  beat  the  forests  and 
search  the  coverts,  they  never  met  him. 
They  killed  wolves,  but  not  that  one.  And 
every  night  after  a  battue,  the  beast,  as  if  to 
avenge  himself,  attacked  some  traveller  or 
devoured  some  one's  cattle,  always  far  from 
the  place  where  they  had  looked  for  him. 

Finally  one  night  he  penetrated  into  the 
pig -pen  of  the  Chateau  d'Arville  and  ate 
the  two  finest  pigs. 

The  brothers  were  inflamed  with  anger, 
considering  this  attack  as  a  bravado  of 
the  monster,  an  insult  direct,  a  defiance. 
They  took  their  strong  blood-hounds  used 
to  pursue  formidable  beasts,  and  they  set 
off  to  hunt,  their  hearts  swollen  with  fury. 

From  dawn  until  the  hour  when  the  em- 
purpled  sun    descended  behind   the   great 


44  THE   ODD    NUMBER. 

naked  trees,  they  beat  the  thickets  without 
finding  anything. 

At  last,  furious  and  disconsolate,  both  were 
returning,  walking  their  horses  along  an  allee 
bordered  with  brambles,  and  they  marvelled 
that  their  woodcraft  should  be  crossed  so 
by  this  wolf,  and  they  were  seized  suddenly 
with  a  sort  of  mysterious  fear. 

The  elder  said : 

"  That  beast  there  is  not  an  ordinary  one. 
You  would  say  it  thought  like  a  man." 

The  younger  answered : 

"Perhaps  we  should  have  a  bullet  bless- 
ed by  our  cousin,  the  bishop,  or  pray  some 
priest  to  pronounce  the  words  which  are 
needed." 

Then  they  were  silent. 

Jean  continued  : 

"  Look  how  red  the  sun  is.  The  great 
wolf  will  do  some  harm  to-night." 

He  had  hardly  finished  speaking  when 
his  horse  reared ;  that  of  Francois  began  to 
kick.  A  large  thicket  covered  with  dead 
leaves  opened  before  them,  and  a  colossal 
beast,  quite  gray,  sprang  up  and  ran  off 
across  the  wood. 


THE   WOLF.  45 

Both  uttered  a  kind  of  groan  of  joy,  and 
bending  over  the  necks  of  their  heavy 
horses,  they  threw  them  forward  with  an 
impulse  from  all  their  body,  hurling  them 
on  at  such  a  pace,  exciting  them,  hurrying 
them  away,  maddening  them  so  with  the 
voice,  with  gesture,  and  with  spur  that  the 
strong  riders  seemed  rather  to  be  carrying 
the  heavy  beasts  between  their  thighs  and 
to  bear  them  off  as  if  they  were  flying. 

Thus  they  went,  ventre  a  terre,  bursting  the 
thickets,  cleaving  the  beds  of  streams,  climb- 
ing the  hill-sides,  descending  the  gorges,  and 
blowing  on  the  horn  with  full  lungs  to  at- 
tract their  people  and  their  dogs. 

And  now,  suddenly,  in  that  mad  race,  my 
ancestor  struck  his  forehead  against  an  enor- 
mous branch  which  split  his  skull ;  and  he 
fell  stark  dead  on  the  ground,  while  his 
frightened  horse  took  himself  off,  disap- 
pearing in  the  shade  which  enveloped  the 
woods. 

The  cadet  of  Arville  stopped  short,  leaped 
to  the  earth,  seized  his  brother  in  his  arms, 
and  he  saw  that  the  brains  ran  from  the 
wound  with  the  blood. 


46  THE   ODD   NUMBER. 

Then  he  sat  down  beside  the  body,  rested 
the  head,  disfigured  and  red,  on  his  knees, 
and  waited,  contemplating  that  immobile 
face  of  the  elder  brother.  Little  by  little  a 
fear  invaded  him,  a  strange  fear  which  he 
had  never  felt  before,  the  fear  of  the  dark, 
the  fear  of  solitude,  the  fear  of  the  deserted 
wood,  and  the  fear  also  of  the  fantastic 
wolf  who  had  just  killed  his  brother  to 
avenge  himself  upon  them  both. 

The  shadows  thickened,  the  acute  cold 
made  the  trees  crack.  Francois  got  up, 
shivering,  unable  to  remain  there  longer, 
feeling  himself  almost  growing  faint.  Noth- 
ing was  to  be  heard,  neither  the  voice  of  the 
doors  nor  the  sound  of  the  horns — all  was 
silent  along  the  invisible  horizon  ;  and  this 
mournful  silence  of  the  frozen  night  had 
something  about  it  frightening  and  strange. 

He  seized  in  his  colossal  hands  the  great 
body  of  Jean,  straightened  it  and  laid  it 
across  the  saddle  to  carry  it  back  to  the 
chateau  ;  then  he  went  on  his  way  softly, 
his  mind  troubled  as  if  he  were  drunken, 
pursued  by  horrible  and  surprising  images. 

And  abruptly,  in  the  path  which  the  night 


THE   WOLF.  47 

was  invading,  a  great  shape  passed.  It  was 
the  beast.  A  shock  of  terror  shook  the 
hunter;  something  cold,  like  a  drop  of  water, 
glided  along  his  reins,  and,  like  a  monk 
haunted  of  the  devil,  he  made  a  great  sign 
of  the  cross,  dismayed  at  this  abrupt  return 
of  the  frightful  prowler.  But  his  eyes  fell 
back  upon  the  inert  body  laid  before  him, 
and  suddenly,  passing  abruptly  from  fear  to 
anger,  he  shook  with  an  inordinate  rage. 

Then  he  spurred  his  horse  and  rushed 
after  the  wolf. 

He  followed  it  by  the  copses,  the  ravines, 
and  the  tall  trees,  traversing  woods  which 
he  no  longer  knew,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the 
white  speck  which  fled  before  him  through 
the  night  now  fallen  upon  the  earth. 

His  horse  also  seemed  animated  by  a 
force  and  an  ardor  hitherto  unknown.  It 
galloped,  with  out-stretched  neck,  straight 
on,  hurling  against  the  trees,  against  the 
rocks,  the  head  and  the  feet  of  the  dead 
man  thrown  across  the  saddle.  The  briers 
tore  out  the  hair ;  the  brow,  beating  the 
huge  trunks,  spattered  them  with  blood ; 
the  spurs  tore  their  ragged  coats  of  bark. 


48  THE   ODD   NUMBER. 

And  suddenly  the  beast  and  the  horseman 
issued  from  the  forest  and  rushed  into  a 
valley,  just  as  the  moon  appeared  above  the 
mountains.  This  valley  was  stony,  closed 
by  enormous  rocks,  without  possible  issue ; 
and  the  wolf  was  cornered  and  turned  round. 

Francois  then  uttered  a  yell  of  joy  which 
the  echoes  repeated  like  a  rolling  of  thun- 
der, and  he  leaped  from  his  horse,  his  cut- 
lass in  his  hand. 

The  beast,  with  bristling  hair,  the  back 
arched,  awaited  him ;  its  eyes  glistened  like 
two  stars.  But,  before  offering  battle,  the 
strong  hunter,  seizing  his  brother,  seated 
him  on  a  rock,  and,  supporting  with  stones 
his  head,  which  was  no  more  than  a  blot  of 
blood,  he  shouted  in  the  ears  as  if  he  was 
talking  to  a  deaf  man,  "  Look,  Jean  ;  look  at 
this !" 

Then  he  threw  himself  upon  the  monster. 
He  felt  himself  strong  enough  to  overturn 
a  mountain,  to  bruise  stones  in  his  hands. 
The  beast  tried  to  bite  him,  seeking  to 
strike  in  at  his  stomach  ;  but  he  had  seized 
it  by  the  neck,  without  even  using  his  weap- 
on, and  he  strangled  it  gently,  listening  to 


THE    WOLF.  49 

the  stoppage  of  the  breathings  in  its  throat 
and  the  beatings  of  its  heart.  And  he  laugh- 
ed, rejoicing  madly,  pressing  closer  and  closer 
his  formidable  embrace,  crying  in  a  delirium 
of  joy,  "  Look,  Jean,  look  !"  All  resistance 
ceased ;  the  body  of  the  wolf  became  lax. 
He  was  dead. 

Then  Francois,  taking  him  up  in  his  arms, 
carried  him  off  and  went  and  threw  him  at 
the  feet  of  the  elder  brother,  repeating,  in  a 
tender  voice,  "  There,  there,  there,  my  little 
Jean,  see  him  !" 

Then  he  replaced  on  the  saddle  the  two 
bodies  one  upon  the  other ;  and  he  went  his 
way. 

He  returned  to  the  chateau,  laughing  and 
crying,  like  Gargantua  at  the  birth  of  Panta- 
gruel,  uttering  shouts  of  triumph  and  stamp- 
ing with  joy  in  relating  the  death  of  the 
beast,  and  moaning  and  tearing  his  beard  in 
telling  that  of  his  brother. 

And  often,  later,  when  he  talked  again  of 
that  day,  he  said,  with  tears  in  his  eyes,  "  If 
only  that  poor  Jean  could  have  seen  me 
strangle  the  other,  he  would  have  died  con- 
tent, I  am  sure  of  it !" 

4 


5° 


THE   ODD    NUMBER. 


The  widow  of  my  ancestor  inspired  her 
orphan  son  with  that  horror  of  the  chase 
which  has  transmitted  itself  from  father  to 
son  as  far  down  as  myself. 

The  Marquis  d'Arville  was  silent.  Some 
one  asked : 

"  That  story  is  a  legend,  isn't  it  ?" 

And  the  story-teller  answered  : 

"  I  swear  to  you  that  it  is  true  from  one 
end  to  the  other." 

Then  a  lady  declared,  in  a  little,  soft  voice : 

"  All  the  same,  it  is  fine  to  have  passions 
like  that." 


IV. 


THE    NECKLACE. 


THE    NECKLACE. 


She  was  one  of  those  pretty  and  charm- 
ing girls  who  are  sometimes,  as  if  by  a  mis- 
take of  destiny,  born  in  a  family  of  clerks. 
She  had  no  dowry,  no  expectations,  no  means 
of  being  known,  understood,  loved,  wedded, 
by  any  rich  and  distinguished  man ;  and  she 
let  herself  be  married  to  a  little  clerk  at  the 
Ministry  of  Public  Instruction. 

She  dressed  plainly  because  she  could  not 
dress  well,  but  she  was  as  unhappy  as  though 
she  had  really  fallen  from  her  proper  station  ; 
since  with  women  there  is  neither  caste  nor 
rank ;  and  beauty,  grace,  and  charm  act  in- 
stead of  family  and  birth.  Natural  fineness, 
instinct  for  what  is  elegant,  suppleness  of 
wit,  are  the  sole  hierarchy,  and  make  from 


54  THE   ODD    NUMBER. 

women  of  the  people  the  equals  of  the  very 
greatest  ladies. 

She  suffered  ceaselessly,  feeling  herself 
born  for  all  the  delicacies  and  all  the  luxu- 
ries. She  suffered  from  the  poverty  of  her 
dwelling,  from  the  wretched  look  of  the  walls, 
from  the  worn-out  chairs,  from  the  ugliness 
of  the  curtains.  All  those  things,  of  which 
another  woman  of  her  rank  would  never  even 
have  been  conscious,  tortured  her  and  made 
her  angry.  The  sight  of  the  little  Breton 
peasant  who  did  her  humble  house  -  work 
aroused  in  her  regrets  which  were  despair- 
ing, and  distracted  dreams.  She  thought  of 
the  silent  antechambers  hung  with  Oriental 
tapestry,  lit  by  tall  bronze  candelabra,  and 
of  the  two  great  footmen  in  knee-breeches 
who  sleep  in  the  big  arm-chairs,  made  drow- 
sy by  the  heavy  warmth  of  the  hot-air  stove. 
She  thought  of  the  long  salons  fitted  up  with 
ancient  silk,  of  the  delicate  furniture  carry- 
ing priceless  curiosities,  and  of  the  coquet- 
tish perfumed  boudoirs  made  for  talks  at 
five  o'clock  with  intimate  friends,  with  men 
famous  and  sought  after,  whom  all  women 
envy  and  whose  attention  they  all  desire. 


THE    NECKLACE.  55 

When  she  sat  down  to  dinner,  before  the 
round  table  covered  with  a  table-cloth  three 
days  old,  opposite  her  husband,  who  uncov- 
ered the  soup-tureen  and  declared  with  an 
enchanted  air,  "Ah,  the  good  pot-au-fcu  /  I 
don't  know  anything  better  than  that,"  she 
thought  of  dainty  dinners,  of  shining  silver- 
ware, of  tapestry  which  peopled  the  walls 
with  ancient  personages  and  with  strange 
birds  flying  in  the  midst  of  a  fairy  for- 
est; and  she  thought  of  delicious  dishes 
served  on  marvellous  plates,  and  of  the 
whispered  gallantries  which  you  listen  to 
with  a  sphinx-like  smile,  while  you  are  eat- 
ing the  pink  flesh  of  a  trout  or  the  wings  of 
a  quail. 

She  had  no  dresses,  no  jewels,  nothing. 
And  she  loved  nothing  but  that;  she  felt 
made  for  that.  She  would  so  have  liked  to 
please,  to  be  envied,  to  be  charming,  to  be 
sought  after. 

She  had  a  friend,  a  former  school-mate  at 
the  convent,  who  was  rich,  and  whom  she  did 
not  like  to  go  and  see  any  more,  because 
she  suffered  so  much  when  she  came  back. 

But,  one  evening,  her  husband  returned 


56  THE   ODD    NUMBER. 

home  with  a  triumphant  air,  and  holding  a 
large  envelope  in  his  hand. 

"  There,"  said  he,  "  here  is  something  for 
you." 

She  tore  the  paper  sharply,  and  drew  out 
a  printed  card  which  bore  these  words  : 

"The  Minister  of  Public  Instruction  and 
Mme.  Georges  Ramponneau  request  the 
honor  of  M.  and  Mme.  Loisel's  company  at 
the  palace  of  the  Ministry  on  Monday  even- 
ing, January  18th." 

Instead  of  being  delighted,  as  her  hus- 
band hoped,  she  threw  the  invitation  on  the 
table  with  disdain,  murmuring  : 

"What  do  you  want  me  to  do  with  that?" 

"But,  my  dear,  I  thought  you  would  be 
glad.  You  never  go  out,  and  this  is  such 
a  fine  opportunity.  I  had  awful  trouble  to 
get  it.  Every  one  wants  to  go ;  it  is  very 
select,  and  they  are  not  giving  many  invi- 
tations to  clerks.  The  whole  official  world 
will  be  there." 

She  looked  at  him  with  an  irritated  eye, 
and  she  said,  impatiently  : 


THE    NECKLACE.  57 

"And  what  do  you  want  me  to  put  on  my 
back  ?" 

He  had  not  thought  of  that;  he  stam- 
mered : 

"Why,  the  dress  you  go  to  the  theatre 
in.     It  looks  very  well,  to  me." 

He  stopped,  distracted,  seeing  that  his 
wife  was  crying.  Two  great  tears  descended 
slowly  from  the  corners  of  her  eyes  towards 
the  corners  of  her  mouth.     He  stuttered: 

"What's  the  matter?  What's  the  mat- 
ter?" 

But,  by  a  violent  effort,  she  had  conquer- 
ed her  grief,  and  she  replied,  with  a  calm 
voice,  while  she  wiped  her  wet  cheeks  : 

"  Nothing.  Only  I  have  no  dress,  and 
therefore  I  can't  go  to  this  ball.  Give  your 
card  to  some  colleague  whose  wife  is  better 
equipped  than  I." 

He  was  in  despair.     He  resumed : 

"  Come,  let  us  see,  Mathilde.  How  much 
would  it  cost,  a  suitable  dress,  which  you 
could  use  on  other  occasions,  something 
very  simple  ?" 

She  reflected  several  seconds,  making  her 
calculations  and  wondering  also  what  sum 


58  THE   ODD    NUMP.ER. 

she  could  ask  without  drawing  on  herself 
an  immediate  refusal  and  a  frightened  ex- 
clamation from  the  economical  clerk. 

Finally,  she  replied,  hesitatingly  : 

"  I  don't  know  exactly,  but  I  think  I 
could  manage  it  with  four  hundred  francs." 

He  had  grown  a  little  pale,  because  he 
was  laying  aside  just  that  amount  to  buy 
a  gun  and  treat  himself  to  a  little  shooting 
next  summer  on  the  plain  of  Nanterre,  with 
several  friends  who  went  to  shoot  larks 
clown  there,  of  a  Sunday. 

Rut  he  said : 

"All  right.  I  will  give  you  four  hundred 
francs.     And  try  to  have  a  pretty  dress." 


The  day  of  the  ball  drew  near,  and  Mme. 
Loisel  seemed  sad,  uneasy,  anxious.  Her 
dress  was  ready,  however.  Her  husband 
said  to  her  one  evening : 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?  Come,  you've  been 
so  queer  these  last  three  days." 

And  she  answered  : 

"  It  annoys  me  not  to  have  a  single  jewel, 
not  a  single  stone,  nothing  to  put  on.     I 


THE    NECKLACE.  59 

shall  look  like  distress.     I  should   almost 
rather  not  go  at  all." 

He  resumed : 

"You  might  wear  natural  flowers.  It's 
very  stylish  at  this  time  of  the  year.  For 
ten  francs  you  can  get  two  or  three  mag- 
nificent roses." 

She  was  not  convinced. 

"  No ;  there's  nothing  more  humiliating 
than  to  look  poor  among  other  women  who 
are  rich." 

But  her  husband  cried  : 

"  How  stupid  you  are  !  Go  look  up  your 
friend  Mine.  Forestier,  and  ask  her  to  lend 
you  some  jewels.  You're  quite  thick  enough 
with  her  to  do  that." 

She  uttered  a  cry  of  joy : 

"  It's  true.     I  never  thought  of  it." 

The  next  day  she  went  to  her  friend  and 
told  of  her  distress. 

Mine.  Forestier  went  to  a  wardrobe  with  a 
glass  door,  took  out  a  large  jewel-box,  brought 
it  back,  opened  it,  and  said  to  Mine.  Loisel: 

"Choose,  my  dear." 

She  saw  first  of  all  some  bracelets,  then  a 
pearl  necklace,  then  a  Venetian  cross,  gold 


60  THE    ODD    NUMBER. 

and  precious  stones  of  admirable  workman- 
ship. She  tried  on  the  ornaments  before 
the  glass,  hesitated,  could  not  make  up  her 
mind  to  part  with  them,  to  give  them  back. 
She  kept  asking : 

"  Haven't  you  any  more  ?" 

"  Why,  yes.  Look.  I  don't  know  what 
you  like." 

All  of  a  sudden  she  discovered,  in  a  black 
satin  box,  a  superb  necklace  of  diamonds ; 
and  her  heart  began  to  beat  with  an  immod- 
erate desire.  Her  hands  trembled  as  she 
took  it.  She  fastened  it  around  her  throat, 
outside  her  high-necked  dress,  and  remain- 
ed lost  in  ecstasy  at  the  sight  of  herself. 

Then  she  asked,  hesitating,  filled  with  an- 
guish : 

"  Can  you  lend  me  that,  only  that  ?" 

"  Why,  yes,  certainly." 

She  sprang  upon  the  neck  of  her  friend, 
kissed  her  passionately,  then  fled  with  her 
treasure. 


The  day  of  the  ball  arrived.     Mme.  Loisel 
made  a  great  success.     She  was  prettier  than 


THE   NECKLACE.  6 1 

them  all,  elegant,  gracious,  smiling,  and  crazy 
with  joy.  All  the  men  looked  at  her,  ask- 
ed her  name,  endeavored  to  be  introduced. 
All  the  attache's  of  the  Cabinet  wanted  to 
waltz  with  her.  She  was  remarked  by  the 
minister  himself. 

She  danced  with  intoxication,  with  pas- 
sion, made  drunk  by  pleasure,  forgetting  all, 
in  the  triumph  of  her  beauty,  in  the  glory  of 
her  success,  in  a  sort  of  cloud  of  happiness 
composed  of  all  this  homage,  of  all  this  ad- 
miration, of  all  these  awakened  desires,  and 
of  that  sense  of  complete  victory  which  is 
so  sweet  to  woman's  heart. 

She  went  away  about  four  o'clock  in  the 
morning.  Her  husband  had  been  sleeping 
since  midnight,  in  a  little  deserted  anteroom, 
with  three  other  gentlemen  whose  wives 
were  having  a  very  good  time. 

He  threw  over  her  shoulders  the  wraps 
which  he  had  brought,  modest  wraps  of  com- 
mon life,  whose  poverty  contrasted  with  the 
elegance  of  the  ball  dress.  She  felt  this  and 
wanted  to  escape  so  as  not  to  be  remarked 
by  the  other  women,  who  were  enveloping 
themselves  in  costly  furs. 


62  THE    ODD    NUMBER. 

Loisel  held  her  back. 

"  Wait  a  bit.  You  will  catch  cold  outside. 
I  will  go  and  call  a  cab." 

But  she  did  not  listen  to  him,  and  rap- 
idly descended  the  stairs.  When  they  were 
in  the  street  they  did  not  find  a  carriage ; 
and  they  began  to  look  for  one,  shouting  af- 
ter the  cabmen  whom  they  saw  passing  by 
at  a  distance. 

They  went  down  towards  the  Seine,  in  de- 
spair, shivering  with  cold.  At  last  they  found 
on  the  quay  one  of  those  ancient  noctam- 
bulant coupes  which,  exactly  as  if  they  were 
ashamed  to  show  their  misery  during  the 
clay,  are  never  seen  round  Paris  until  after 
nightfall. 

It  took  them  to  their  door  in  the  Rue  des 
Martyrs,  and  once  more,  sadly,  they  climbed 
up  homeward.  All  was  ended,  for  her.  And 
as  to  him,  he  reflected  that  he  must  be  at 
the  Ministry  at  ten  o'clock. 

She  removed  the  wraps,  which  covered 
her  shoulders,  before  the  glass,  so  as  once 
more  to  see  herself  in  all  her  glory.  But 
suddenly  she  uttered  a  cry.  She  had  no 
longer  the  necklace  around  her  neck ! 


THE    NECKLACE.  63 

Her  husband,  already  half-undressed,  de- 
manded : 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  you  ?" 

She  turned  madly  towards  him  : 

"  I  have — I  have — I've  lost  Mme.  Fores- 
tier's  necklace." 

He  stood  up,  distracted. 

"  What !— how  ?— Impossible  !" 

And  they  looked  in  the  folds  of  her  dress, 
in  the  folds  of  her  cloak,  in  her  pockets,  ev- 
erywhere.    They  did  not  find  it. 

He  asked  : 

"  You're  sure  you  had  it  on  when  you  left 
the  ball  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  felt  it  in  the  vestibule  of  the  pal- 
ace." 

"  But  if  you  had  lost  it  in  the  street  we 
should  have  heard  it  fall.  It  must  be  in  the 
cab." 

"  Yes.  Probably.  Did  you  take  his  num- 
ber ?" 

"  No.     And  you,  didn't  you  notice  it  ?" 

"No." 

They  looked,  thunderstruck,  at  one  anoth- 
er.    At  last  Loisel  put  on  his  clothes. 

"  I  shall  go  back  on  foot,"  said  he,  "  over 


64  THE    ODD    NUMBER. 

the  whole  route  which  we  have  taken,  to  see 
if  I  can't  find  it." 

And  he  went  out.  She  sat  waiting  on  a 
chair  in  her  ball  dress,  without  strength  to 
go  to  bed,  overwhelmed,  without  fire,  without 
a  thought. 

Her  husband  came  back  about  seven 
o'clock.     He  had  found  nothing. 

He  went  to  Police  Headquarters,  to  the 
newspaper  offices,  to  offer  a  reward;  he  went 
to  the  cab  companies — everywhere,  in  fact, 
whither  he  was  urged  by  the  least  suspicion 
of  hope. 

She  waited  all  day,  in  the  same  condition 
of  mad  fear  before  this  terrible  calamity. 

Loisel  returned  at  night  with  a  hollow, 
pale  face ;  he  had  discovered  nothing. 

"You  must  write  to  your  friend,"  said  he, 
"that  you  have  broken  the  clasp  of  her 
necklace  and  that  you  are  having  it  mend- 
ed.    That  will  give  us  time  to  turn  round." 

She  wrote  at  his  dictation. 


At  the  end  of  a  week  they  had  lost  all 
hope. 


THE   NECKLACE.  65 

And  Loisel,  who  had  aged  five  years,  de- 
clared : 

"  We  must  consider  how  to  replace  that 
ornament." 

The  next  day  they  took  the  box  which 
had  contained  it,  and  they  went  to  the  jew- 
eller whose  name  was  found  within.  He 
consulted  his  books. 

"  It  was  not  I,  madame,  who  sold  that 
necklace  ;  I  must  simply  have  furnished  the 
case." 

Then  they  went  from  jeweller  to  jeweller, 
searching  for  a  necklace  like  the  other,  con- 
sulting their  memories,  sick  both  of  them 
with  chasrin  and  with  anguish. 

They  found,  in  a  shop  at  the  Palais  Roy- 
al, a  string  of  diamonds  which  seemed  to 
them  exactly  like  the  one  they  looked  for. 
It  was  worth  forty  thousand  francs.  They 
could  have  it  for  thirty-six. 

So  they  begged  the  jeweller  not  to  sell 
it  for  three  days  yet.  And  they  made  a 
bargain  that  he  should  buy  it  back  for 
thirty -four  thousand  francs,  in  case  they 
found  the  other  one  before  the  end  of  Feb 
ruary. 

5 


66  THE   ODD    NUMBER. 

Loisel  possessed  eighteen  thousand  francs 
which  his  father  had  left  him.  He  would 
borrow  the  rest. 

He  did  borrow,  asking  a  thousand  francs 
of  one,  five  hundred  of  another,  five  louis 
here,  three  louis  there.  He  gave  notes,  took 
up  ruinous  obligations,  dealt  with  usurers, 
and  all  the  race  of  lenders.  He  compro- 
mised all  the  rest  of  his  life,  risked  his  sig- 
nature without  even  knowing  if  he  could 
meet  it ;  and,  frightened  by  the  pains  yet  to 
come,  by  the  black  misery  which  was  about 
to  fall  upon  him,  by  the  prospect  of  all  the 
physical  privations  and  of  all  the  moral  tort- 
ures which  he  was  to  suffer,  he  went  to 
get  the  new  necklace,  putting  down  upon 
the  merchant's  counter  thirty-six  thousand 
francs. 

When  Mme.  Loisel  took  back  the  neck- 
lace, Mine.  Forestier  said  to  her,  with  a  chilly 
manner  : 

"  You  should  have  returned  it  sooner,  I 
might  have  needed  it." 

She  did  not  open  the  case,  as  her  friend 
had  so  much  feared.  If  she  had  detected  the 
substitution,  what  would  she  have  thought, 


THE    NECKLACE.  6j 

what  would  she  have  said  ?  Would  she  not 
have  taken  Mine.  Loisel  for  a  thief  ? 

Mine.  Loisel  now  knew  the  horrible  ex- 
istence of  the  needy.  She  took  her  part, 
moreover,  all  on  a  sudden,  with  heroism. 
That  dreadful  debt  must  be  paid.  She 
would  pay  it.  They  dismissed  their  serv- 
ant; they  changed  their  lodgings;  they  rent- 
ed a  garret  under  the  roof. 

She  came  to  know  what  heavy  house- 
work meant  and  the  odious  cares  of  the 
kitchen.  She  washed  the  dishes,  using  her 
rosy  nails  on  the  greasy  pots  and  pans. 
She  washed  the  dirty  linen,  the  shirts,  and 
the  dish-cloths,  which  she  dried  upon  a 
line ;  she  carried  the  slops  down  to  the 
street  every  morning,  and  carried  up  the 
water,  stopping  for  breath  at  every  landing. 
And,  dressed  like  a  woman  of  the  people,  she 
went  to  the  fruiterer,  the  grocer,  the  butcher, 
her  basket  on  her  arm,  bargaining,  insulted, 
defending  her  miserable  money  sou  by  sou. 

Each  month  they  had  to  meet  some  notes, 
renew  others,  obtain  more  time. 

Her  husband  worked  in  the  evening  mak- 
ing a  fair  copy  of  some  tradesman's  accounts, 


68  THE   ODD    NUMBER. 

and  late  at  night  he  often  copied  manuscript 
for  five  sous  a  page. 

And  this  life  lasted  ten  years. 

At  the  end  of  ten  years  they  had  paid 
everything,  everything,  with  the  rates  of 
usury,  and  the  accumulations  of  the  com- 
pound interest. 

Mine.  Loisel  looked  old  now.  She  had 
become  the  woman  of  impoverished  house- 
holds— strong  and  hard  and  rough.  With 
frowsy  hair,  skirts  askew,  and  red  hands,  she 
talked  loud  while  washing  the  floor  with  great 
swishes  of  water.  But  sometimes,  when  her 
husband  was  at  the  office,  she  sat  down  near 
the  window,  and  she  thought  of  that  gay 
evening  of  long  ago,  of  that  ball  where  she 
had  been  so  beautiful  and  so  feted. 

What  would  have  happened  if  she  had 
not  lost  that  necklace  ?  Who  knows  ?  who 
knows  ?  How  life  is  strange  and  changeful ! 
How  little  a  thing  is  needed  for  us  to  be 
lost  or  to  be  saved ! 


But,  one  Sunday,  having  gone  to  take  a 
walk  in  the  Champs  Elysees  to  refresh  her- 


THE   NECKLACE.  69 

self  from  the  labors  of  the  week,  she  sud- 
denly perceived  a  woman  who  was  leading 
a  child.  It  was  Mine.  Forestier,  still  young, 
still  beautiful,  still  charming. 

Mme.  Loisel  felt  moved.  Was  she  going 
to  speak  to  her  ?  Yes,  certainly.  And  now 
that  she  had  paid,  she  was  going  to  tell  her 
all  about  it.     Why  not  ? 

She  went  up. 

"  Good-day,  Jeanne." 

The  other,  astonished  to  be  familiarly  ad- 
dressed by  this  plain  good-wife,  did  not  rec- 
ognize her  at  all,  and  stammered : 

"  But — madame  ! — I  do  not  know —  You 
must  have  mistaken." 

"  No.     I  am  Mathilde  Loisel." 

Her  friend  uttered  a  cry. 

"  Oh,  my  poor  Mathilde  !  How  you  are 
changed !" 

"  Yes,  I  have  had  days  hard  enough,  since 
I  have  seen  you,  days  wretched  enough — 
and  that  because  of  you  !" 

"  Of  me  !     How  so  ?" 

"  Do  you  remember  that  diamond  neck- 
lace which  you  lent  me  to  wear  at  the  min- 
isterial ball  ?" 


70  THE    ODD    NUMBER. 

"Yes.     Well?" 

"Well,  I  lost  it." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  You  brought  it 
back." 

"  I  brought  you  back  another  just  like  it. 
And  for  this  we  have  been  ten  years  paying. 
You  can  understand  that  it  was  not  easy  for 
us,  us  who  had  nothing.  At  last  it  is  ended, 
and  I  am  very  glad." 

Mine.  Forestier  had  stopped. 

"  You  say  that  you  bought  a  necklace  of 
diamonds  to  replace  mine  ?" 

"  Yes.  You  never  noticed  it,  then  !  They 
were  very  like." 

And  she  smiled  with  a  joy  which  was  proud 
and  naive  at  once. 

Mme.  Forestier,  strongly  moved,  took  her 
two  hands. 

"  Oh,  my  poor  Mathilde  !  Why,  my  neck- 
lace was  paste.  It  was  worth  at  most  five 
hundred  francs !" 


V. 
THE    PIECE    OF   STRING. 


THE    PIECE   OF   STRING. 


It  was  market-day,  and  over  all  the  roads 
round  Goderville  the  peasants  and  their  wives 
were  coming  towards  the  town.  The  men 
walked  easily,  lurching  the  whole  body  for- 
ward at  every  step.  Their  long  legs  were 
twisted  and  deformed  by  the  slow,  painful 
labors  of  the  country  : — by  bending  over  to 
plough,  which  is  what  also  makes  their  left 
shoulders  too  high  and  their  figures  crook- 
ed ;  and  by  reaping  corn,  which  obliges  them 
for  steadiness'  sake  to  spread  their  knees 
too  wide.  Their  starched  blue  blouses,  shin- 
ing as  though  varnished,  ornamented  at  col- 
lar and  cuffs  with  little  patterns  of  white 
stitch-work,  and  blown  up  big  around  their 
bony  bodies,  seemed  exactly  like  balloons 


74  THE    ODD    NUMBER. 

about  to  soar,  but  putting  forth  a  head,  two 
arms,  and  two  feet. 

Some  of  these  fellows  dragged  a  cow  or 
a  calf  at  the  end  of  a  rope.  And  just  behind 
the  animal,  beating  it  over  the  back  with  a 
leaf-covered  branch  to  hasten  its  pace,  went 
their  wives,  carrying  large  baskets  from 
which  came  forth  the  heads  of  chickens  or 
the  heads  of  ducks.  These  women  walked 
with  steps  far  shorter  and  quicker  than  the 
men;  their  figures,  withered  and  upright,  were 
adorned  with  scanty  little  shawls  pinned  over 
their  flat  bosoms',  and  they  enveloped  their 
heads  each  in  a  white  cloth,  close  fastened 
round  the  hair  and  surmounted  by  a  cap. 

Now  a  char-a-banc  passed  by,  drawn  by  a 
jerky-paced  nag.  It  shook  up  strangely  the 
two  men  on  the  seat.  And  the  woman  at  the 
bottom  of  the  cart  held  fast  to  its  sides  to 
lessen  the  hard  joltings. 

In  the  market-place  at  Goderville  was  a 
great  crowd,  a  mingled  multitude  of  men 
and  beasts.  The  horns  of  cattle,  the  high 
and  long- napped  hats  of  wealthy  peasants, 
the  head-dresses  of  the  women,  came  to  the 
surface  of  that  sea.     And  voices  clamorous, 


THE    PIECE   OF   STRING.  75 

sharp,  shrill,  made  a  continuous  and  savage 
din.  Above  it  a  huge  burst  of  laughter  from 
the  sturdy  lungs  of  a  merry  yokel  would  some- 
times sound,  and  sometimes  a  long  bellow 
from  a  cow  tied  fast  to  the  wall  of  a  house. 

It  all  smelled  of  the  stable,  of  milk,  of  hay, 
and  of  perspiration,  giving  off  that  half-hu- 
man, half- animal  odor  which  is  peculiar  to 
the  men  of  the  fields. 

Maitre  Hauchecorne,  of  Breaute,  had  just 
arrived  at  Goderville,  and  was  taking  his  way 
towards  the  square,  when  he  perceived  on 
the  ground  a  little  piece  of  string.  Mai- 
tre Hauchecorne,  economical,  like  all  true 
Normans,  reflected  that  everything  was  worth 
picking  up  which  could  be  of  any  use ;  and 
he  stooped  down — but  painfully,  because  he 
suffered  from  rheumatism.  He  took  the  bit 
of  thin  cord  from  the  ground,  and  was  care- 
fully preparing  to  roll  it  up  when  he  saw 
Maitre  Malandain,  the  harness-maker,  on  his 
door-step,  looking  at  him.  They  had  once 
had  a  quarrel  about  a  halter,  and  they  had  re- 
mained angry,  bearing  malice  on  both  sides. 
Maitre  Hauchecorne  was  overcome  with  a 
sort  of  shame  at  being  seen  by  his  enemy 


76  THE   ODD    NUMBER. 

looking  in  the  dirt  so  for  a  bit  of  string.  He 
quickly  hid  his  find  beneath  his  blouse ;  then 
in  the  pocket  of  his  breeches  ;  then  pretend- 
ed to  be  still  looking  for  something  on  the 
ground  which  he  did  not  discover;  and  at 
last  went  off  towards  the  market-place,  with 
his  head  bent  forward,  and  a  body  almost 
doubled  in  two  by  rheumatic  pains. 

He  lost  himself  immediately  in  the  crowd, 
which  was  clamorous,  slow,  and  agitated  by 
interminable  bargains.  The  peasants  exam- 
ined the  cows,  went  off,  came  back,  always 
in  great  perplexity  and  fear  of  being  cheat- 
ed, never  quite  daring  to  decide,  spying  at 
the  eye  of  the  seller,  trying  ceaselessly  to 
discover  the  tricks  of  the  man  and  the  de- 
fect in  the  beast. 

The  women,  having  placed  their  great 
baskets  at  their  feet,  had  pulled  out  the 
poultry,  which  lay  upon  the  ground,  tied 
by  the  legs,  with  eyes  scared,  with  combs 
scarlet. 

They  listened  to  propositions,  maintain- 
ing their  prices,  with  a  dry  manner,  with  an 
impassible  face ;  or,  suddenly,  perhaps,  de- 
ciding to  take  the  lower  price  which  was 


THE   PIECE   OF   STRING.  77 

offered,  they  cried  out  to  the  customer,  who 
was  departing  slowly : 

"All  right,  I'll  let  you  have  them,  Mait' 
Anthime." 

Then,  little  by  little,  the  square  became 
empty,  and  when  the  Angelas  struck  mid- 
day those  who  lived  at  a  distance  poured 
into  the  inns. 

At  Jourdain's  the  great  room  was  rilled 
with  eaters,  just  as  the  vast  court  was  filled 
with  vehicles  of  every  sort — wagons,  gigs, 
char-a-bancs,  tilburys,  tilt-carts  which  have 
no  name,  yellow  with  mud,  misshapen,  pieced 
together,  raising  their  shafts  to  heaven  like 
two  arms,  or  it  may  be  with  their  nose  in 
the  dirt  and  their  rear  in  the  air. 

Just  opposite  to  where  the  diners  were  at 
table  the  huge  fireplace,  full  of  clear  flame, 
threw  a  lively  heat  on  the  backs  of  those  who 
sat  along  the  right.  Three  spits  were  turn- 
ing, loaded  with  chickens,  with  pigeons,  and 
with  joints  of  mutton  ;  and  a  delectable  odor 
of  roast  meat,  and  of  gravy  gushing  over  crisp 
brown  skin,  took  wing  from  the  hearth,  kin- 
dled merriment,  caused  mouths  to  water. 

All  the  aristocracy  of  the  plough  were  eat- 


78  THE   ODD   NUMBER. 

ing  there,  at  Mait'  Jourdain's,  the  innkeep- 
er's, a  dealer  in  horses  also,  and  a  sharp 
fellow  who  had  made  a  pretty  penny  in  his 
day. 

The  dishes  were  passed  round,  were  emp- 
tied, with  jugs  of  yellow  cider.  Every  one 
told  of  his  affairs,  of  his  purchases  and  his 
sales.  They  asked  news  about  the  crops. 
The  weather  was  good  for  green  stuffs,  but 
a  little  wet  for  wheat. 

All  of  a  sudden  the  drum  rolled  in  the 
court  before  the  house.  Every  one,  except 
some  of  the  most  indifferent,  was  on  his  feet 
at  once,  and  ran  to  the  door,  to  the  windows, 
with  his  mouth  still  full  and  his  napkin  in 
his  hand. 

When  the  public  crier  had  finished  his 
tattoo  he  called  forth  in  a  jerky  voice,  mak- 
ing his  pauses  out  of  time  : 

"  Be  it  known  to  the  inhabitants  of  Go- 
derville,  and  in  general  to  all — persons  pres- 
ent at  the  market,  that  there  has  been  lost 
this  morning,  on  the  Beuzeville  road,  be- 
tween— nine  and  ten  o'clock,  a  pocket-book 
of  black  leather,  containing  five  hundred 
francs  and  business   papers.     You  are   re- 


THE    PIECE   OF    STRING.  79 

quested  to  return  it — to  the  mayor's  office, 
at  once,  or  to  Maitre  Fortune  Houlbreque, 
of  Manneville.  There  will  be  twenty  francs 
reward." 

Then  the  man  departed.  They  heard 
once  more  at  a  distance  the  dull  beatings 
on  the  drum  and  the  faint  voice  of  the  crier. 

Then  they  began  to  talk  of  this  event, 
reckoning  up  the  chances  which  Maitre 
Houlbreque  had  of  finding  or  of  not  finding 
his  pocket-book  again. 

And  the  meal  went  on. 

They  were  finishing  their  coffee  when  the 
corporal  of  gendarmes  appeared  on  the 
threshold. 

He  asked : 

"Is  Maitre  Hauchecorne,  of  Breaute, 
here?" 

Maitre  Hauchecorne,  seated  at  the  other 
end  of  the  table,  answered : 

"  Here  I  am." 

And  the  corporal  resumed : 

"  Maitre  Hauchecorne,  will  you  have  the 
kindness  to  come  with  me  to  the  mayor's 
office  ?  M.  le  Maire  would  like  to  speak  to 
you." 


So  THE   ODD    NUMBER. 

The  peasant,  surprised  and  uneasy,  gulp- 
ed down  his  little  glass  of  cognac,  got  up, 
and,  even  worse  bent  over  than  in  the  morn- 
ing, since  the  first  steps  after  a  rest  were 
always  particularly  difficult,  started  off,  re- 
peating : 

"Here  I  am,  here  I  am." 

And  he  followed  the  corporal. 

The  mayor  was  waiting  for  him,  seated 
in  an  arm-chair.  He  was  the  notary  of  the 
place,  a  tall,  grave  man  of  pompous  speech. 

"  Maitre  Hauchecorne,"  said  he,  "  this 
morning,  on  the  Beuzeville  road,  you  were 
seen  to  pick  up  the  pocket-book  lost  by 
Maitre  Houlbreque,  of  Manneville." 

The  countryman,  speechless,  regarded 
the  mayor,  frightened  already  by  this  sus- 
picion which  rested  on  him  he  knew  not 
why. 

"  I,  I  picked  up  that  pocket-book  ?" 

''Yes,  you." 

"  I  swear  I  didn't  even  know  nothing 
about  it  at  all." 

"  You  were  seen." 

"  They  saw  me,  me  ?  Who  is  that  who 
saw  me  ?" 


THE    PIECE    OF    STRING.  8l 

"  M.  Malandain,  the  harness-maker." 

Then  the  old  man  remembered,  under- 
stood, and,  reddening  with  anger  : 

"  Ah  !  he  saw  me,  did  he,  the  rascal  ?  He 
saw  me  picking  up  this  string  here,  M'sieu' 
le  Maire." 

And,  fumbling  at  the  bottom  of  his  pock- 
et, he  pulled  out  of  it  the  little  end  of 
string. 

But  the  mayor  incredulously  shook  his 
head : 

"  You  will  not  make  me  believe,  Maitre 
Hauchecorne,  that  M.  Malandain,  who  is  a 
man  worthy  of  credit,  has  mistaken  this 
string  for  a  pocket-book." 

The  peasant,  furious,  raised  his  hand  and 
spit  as  if  to  attest  his  good  faith,  repeating  : 

"For  all  that,  it  is  the  truth  of  the  good 
God,  the  blessed  truth,  M'sieu'  le  Maire. 
There  !  on  my  soul  and  my  salvation  I  re- 
peat it." 

The  mayor  continued  : 

"After  having  picked  up  the  thing  in  ques- 
tion, you  even  looked  for  some  time  in  the 
mud  to  see  if  a  piece  of  money  had  not  drop- 
ped out  of  it."    • 
6 


82  THE    ODD    NUMBER. 

The  good  man  was  suffocated  with  indig- 
nation and  with  fear: 

"  If  they  can  say  ! — if  they  can  say  .... 
such  lies  as  that  to  slander  an  honest  man  ! 
If  they  can  say ! — " 

He  might  protest,  he  was  not  believed. 

He  was  confronted  with  M.  Malandain, 
who  repeated  and  sustained  his  testimony. 
They  abused  one  another  for  an  hour.  At 
his  own  request  Maitre  Hauchecorne  was 
searched.     Nothing  was  found  upon  him. 

At  last,  the  mayor,  much  perplexed,  sent 
him  away,  warning  him  that  he  would  inform 
the  public  prosecutor,  and  ask  for  orders. 

The  news  had  spread.  When  he  left  the 
mayor's  office,  the  old  man  was  surrounded, 
interrogated  with  a  curiosity  which  was  seri- 
ous or  mocking  as  the  case  might  be,  but 
into  which  no  indignation  entered.  And  he 
began  to  tell  the  story  of  the  string.  They 
did  not  believe  him.     They  laughed. 

He  passed  on,  button-holed  by  every  one, 
himself  button-holing  his  acquaintances,  be- 
ginning over  and  over  again  his  tale  and  his 
protestations,  showing  his  pockets  turned  in- 
side out  to  prove  that  he  had  nothing. 


THE   PIECE    OF    STRING.  83 

They  said  to  him  : 

"  You  old  rogue,  va/" 

And  he  grew  angry,  exasperated,  feverish, 
in  despair  at  not  being  believed,  and  always 
telling  his  story. 

The  night  came.  It  was  time  to  go  home. 
He  set  out  with  three  of  his  neighbors,  to 
whom  he  pointed  out  the  place  where  he 
had  picked  up  the  end  of  string  ;  and  all 
the  way  he  talked  of  his  adventure. 

That  evening  he  made  the  round  in  the 
village  of  Breaute',  so  as  to  tell  every  one. 
He  met  only  unbelievers. 

He  was  ill  of  it  all  night  long. 

The  next  clay,  about  one  in  the  afternoon, 
Marius  Paumelle,  a  farm  hand  of  Maitre  Bre- 
ton, the  market -gardener  at  Ymauville,  re- 
turned the  pocket-book  and  its  contents  to 
Maitre  Houlbreque,  of  Manneville. 

This  man  said,  indeed,  that  he  had  found 
it  on  the  road ;  but  not  knowing  how  to  read, 
he  had  carried  it  home  and  given  it  to  his 
master. 

The  news  spread  to  the  environs.  Maitre 
Hauchecorne  was  informed.  He  put  him- 
self at  once  upon  the  go,  and  began  to  relate 


84  THE   ODD    NUMBER. 

his  story  as  completed  by  the  denouement. 
He  triumphed. 

"  What  grieved  me,"  said  he,  "  was  not 
the  thing  itself,  do  you  understand ;  but 
it  was  the  lies.  There's  nothing  does  you 
so  much  harm  as  being  in  disgrace  for 
lying." 

All  day  he  talked  of  his  adventure,  he 
told  it  on  the  roads  to  the  people  who  pass- 
ed ;  at  the  cabaret  to  the  people  who  drank ; 
and  the  next  Sunday,  when  they  came  out  of 
church.  He  even  stopped  strangers  to  tell 
them  about  it.  He  was  easy,  now,  and  yet 
something  worried  him  without  his  knowing 
exactly  what  it  was.  People  had  a  joking 
manner  while  they  listened.  They  did  not 
seem  convinced.  He  seemed  to  feel  their 
tittle-tattle  behind  his  back. 

On  Tuesday  of  the  next  week  he  went  to 
market  at  Goderville,  prompted  entirely  by 
the  need  of  telling  his  story. 

Malandain,  standing  on  his  door-step,  be- 
gan to  laugh  as  he  saw  him  pass.     Why  ? 

He  accosted  a  farmer  of  Criquetot,  who 
did  not  let  him  finish,  and,  giving  him  a  punch 
in  the  pit  of  his  stomach,  cried  in  his  face  : 


THE    PIECE   OF    STRING.  85 

"Oh  you  great  rogue,  va/"  Then  turned 
his  heel  upon  him. 

Maitre  Hauchecorne  remained  speechless, 
and  grew  more  and  more  uneasy.  Why  had 
they  called  him  "great  rogue  ?" 

When  seated  at  table  in  Jourdain's  tavern 
he  began  again  to  explain  the  whole  affair. 

A  horse-dealer  of  Montivilliers  shouted  at 
him  : 

"  Get  out,  get  out  you  old  scamp ;  I  know 
all  about  your  string  !" 

Hauchecorne  stammered : 

"  But  since  they  found  it  again,  the  pock- 
et-book !" 

But  the  other  continued : 

"Hold  your  tongue,  daddy;  there's  one 
who  finds  it  and  there's  another  who  re- 
turns it.     And  no  one  the  wiser." 

The  peasant  was  choked.  He  under- 
stood at  last.  They  accused  him  of  having 
had  the  pocket-book  brought  back  by  an 
accomplice,  by  a  confederate. 

He  tried  to  protest.  The  whole  table 
began  to  laugh. 

He  could  not  finish  his  dinner,  and  went 
away  amid  a  chorus  of  jeers. 


86  THE   ODD    NUMBER. 

He  went  home,  ashamed  and  indignant, 
choked  with  rage,  with  confusion,  the  more 
cast-down  since  from  his  Norman  cunning, 
he  was,  perhaps,  capable  of  having  done  what 
they  accused  him  of,  and  even  of  boasting 
of  it  as  a  good  trick.  His  innocence  dimly 
seemed  to  him  impossible  to  prove,  his  craft- 
iness being  so  well  known.  And  he  felt 
himself  struck  to  the  heart  by  the  injustice 
of  the  suspicion. 

Then  he  began  anew  to  tell  of  his  ad- 
venture, lengthening  his  recital  every  day, 
each  time  adding  new  proofs,  more  energetic 
protestations,  and  more  solemn  oaths  which 
he  thought  of,  which  he  prepared  in  his 
hours  of  solitude,  his  mind  being  entirely 
occupied  by  the  story  of  the  string.  The 
more  complicated  his  defence,  the  more  art- 
ful his  arguments,  the  less  he  was  believed. 

"Those  are  liars'  proofs,"  they  said  be- 
hind his  back. 

He  felt  this;  it  preyed  upon  his  heart. 
He  exhausted  himself  in  useless  efforts. 

He  was  visibly  wasting  away. 

The  jokers  now  made  him  tell  the  story 
of  "  The  Piece  of  String "  to  amuse  them, 


THE   PIECE   OF   STRING.  87 

just  as  you  make  a  soldier  who  has  been 
on  a  campaign  tell  his  story  of  the  battle. 
His  mind,  struck  at  the  root,  grew  weak. 

About  the  end  of  December  he  took  to 
his  bed. 

He  died  early  in  January,  and,  in  the  de- 
lirium of  the  death-agony,  he  protested  his 
innocence,  repeating  : 

"A  little  bit  of  string  — a  little  bit  of 
string — see,  here  it  is,  M'sieu'  le  Maire." 


VI. 
LA    MERE    SAUVAGE. 


LA    MERE    SAUVAGE. 


I  had  not  been  at  Virelogne  for  fifteen 
years.  I  went  back  there  in  the  autumn, 
to  shoot  with  my  friend  Serval,  who  had  at 
last  rebuilt  his  chateau,  which  had  been  de- 
stroyed by  the  Prussians. 

I  loved  that  district  very  much.  It  is 
one  of  those  corners  of  the  world  which 
have  a  sensuous  charm  for  the  eyes.  You 
love  it  with  a  bodily  love.  We,  whom  the 
country  seduces,  we  keep  tender  memories 
for  certain  springs,  for  certain  woods,  for 
certain  pools,  for  certain  hills,  seen  very 
often,  and  which  have  stirred  us  like  joy- 
ful events.  Sometimes  our  thoughts  turn 
back  towards  a  corner  in  a  forest,  or  the 
end  of  a  bank,  or  an  orchard  powdered  with 


92  THE    ODD    NUMBER. 

flowers,  seen  but  a  single  time,  on  some  gay 
day ;  yet  remaining  in  our  hearts  like  the 
images  of  certain  women  met  in  the  street 
on  a  spring  morning,  with  bright  transparent 
dresses ;  and  leaving  in  soul  and  body  an 
unappeased  desire  which  is  not  to  be  for- 
gotten, a  feeling  that  you  have  just  rubbed 
elbows  with  happiness. 

At  Virelogne  I  loved  the  whole  country- 
side, dotted  with  little  woods,  and  crossed  by 
brooks  which  flashed  in  the  sun  and  looked 
like  veins,  carrying  blood  to  the  earth.  You 
fished  in  them  for  crawfish,  trout,  and  eels  ! 
Divine  happiness !  You  could  bathe  in 
places,  and  you  often  found  snipe  among  the 
high  grass  which  grew  along  the  borders  of 
these  slender  watercourses. 

I  was  walking,  lightly  as  a  goat,  watching 
my  two  dogs  ranging  before  me.  Serval,  a 
hundred  metres  to  my  right,  was  beating  a 
field  of  lucern.  I  turned  the  thicket  which 
forms  the  boundary  of  the  wood  of  Sandres, 
and  I  saw  a  cottage  in  ruins. 

All  of  a  sudden,  I  remembered  it  as  I  had 
seen  it  the  last  time,  in  1869,  neat,  covered 
with  vines,  with  chickens  before  the  door. 


LA    MERE   SAUVAGE.  93 

What  sadder  than  a  dead  house,  with  its 
skeleton  standing  upright,  bare  and  sinister  ? 

I  also  remembered  that  in  it,  one  very 
tiring  day,  the  good  woman  had  given  me  a 
glass  of  wine  to  drink,  and  that  Serval  had 
then  told  me  the  history  of  its  inhabitants. 
The  father,  an  old  poacher,  had  been  killed 
by  the  gendarmes.  The  son,  whom  I  had 
once  seen,  was  a  tall,  dry  fellow  who  also 
passed  for  a  ferocious  destroyer  of  game. 
People  called  them  "les  Sauvage." 

Was  that  a  name  or  a  nickname  ? 

I  hailed  Serval.  He  came  up  with  his 
long  strides  like  a  crane. 

I  asked  him  : 

"  What's  become  of  those  people  ?" 

And  he  told  me  this  story: 


When  war  was  declared,  the  son  Sauvage, 
who  was  then  thirty-three  years  old,  enlisted, 
leaving  his  mother  alone  in  the  house.  Peo- 
ple did  not  pity  the  old  woman  very  much, 
because  she  had  money ;  they  knew  it. 

But  she  remained  quite  alone  in  that  iso- 
lated dwelling  so  far  from  the  village,  on  the 


94  THE    ODD    NUMBER. 

edge  of  the  wood.  She  was  not  afraid,  how- 
ever, being  of  the  same  strain  as  her  men- 
folk ;  a  hardy  old  woman,  tall  and  thin,  who 
laughed  seldom,  and  with  whom  one  never 
jested.  The  women  of  the  fields  laugh  but 
little  in  any  case  ;  that  is  men's  business, 
that !  But  they  themselves  have  sad  and 
narrowed  hearts,  leading  a  melancholy, 
gloomy  life.  The  peasants  learn  a  little 
boisterous  merriment  at  the  tavern,  but  their 
helpmates  remain  grave,  with  countenances 
which  are  always  severe.  The  muscles  of 
their  faces  have  never  learned  the  move- 
ments of  the  laugh. 

La  Mere  Sauvage  continued  her  ordinary 
existence  in  her  cottage,  which  was  soon 
covered  by  the  snows.  She  came  to  the 
village  once  a  week,  to  get  bread  and  a  lit- 
tle meat ;  then  she  returned  into  her  house. 
As  there  was  talk  of  wolves,  she  went  out 
with  a  gun  upon  her  back — her  son's  gun, 
rusty,  and  with  the  butt  worn  by  the  rubbing 
of  the  hand ;  and  she  was  strange  to  see,  the 
tall  "  Sauvage,"  a  little  bent,  going  with  slow 
strides  over  the  snow,  the  muzzle  of  the 
piece  extending  beyond  the  black  head-dress, 


LA   MKRE   SAUVAGE.  95 

which  pressed  close  to  her  head  and  im- 
prisoned her  white  hair,  which  no  one  had 
ever  seen. 

One  day  a  Prussian  force  arrived.  It 
was  billeted  upon  the  inhabitants,  accord- 
ing to  the  property  and  resources  of  each. 
Four  were  allotted  to  the  old  woman,  who 
was  known  to  be  rich. 

They  were  four  great  boys  with  blond 
skin,  with  blond  beards,  with  blue  eyes, 
who  had  remained  stout  notwithstanding 
the  fatigues  which  they  had  endured  already, 
and  who  also,  though  in  a  conquered  coun- 
try, had  remained  kind  and  gentle.  Alone 
with  this  aged  woman,  they  showed  them- 
selves full  of  consideration,  sparing  her,  as 
much  as  they  could,  all  expenses  and  fatigue. 
They  would  be  seen,  all  four  of  them,  mak- 
ing their  toilet  round  the  well,  of  a  morning, 
in  their  shirt-sleeves,  splashing  with  great 
swishes  of  water,  under  the  crude  daylight 
of  the  snowy  weather,  their  pink-white  North- 
man's flesh,  while  La  Mere  Sauvage  went 
and  came,  making  ready  the  soup.  Then 
they  would  be  seen  cleaning  the  kitchen, 
rubbing   the    tiles,   splitting  wood,   peeling 


q6  the  odd  number. 

potatoes,  doing  up  all  the  house-work,  like 
four  good  sons  about  their  mother. 

But  the  old  woman  thought  always  of  her 
own,  so  tall  and  thin,  with  his  hooked  nose 
and  his  brown  eyes  and  his  heavy  mustache 
which  made  a  roll  of  black  hairs  upon  his 
lip.  She  asked  each  day  of  each  of  the  sol- 
diers who  were  installed  beside  her  hearth : 

"  Do  you  know  where  the  French  March- 
ing Regiment  No.  23  was  sent  ?  My  boy 
is  in  it." 

They  answered,  "  No,  not  know,  not  know 
at  all."  And,  understanding  her  pain  and 
her  uneasiness  (they,  who  had  mothers  too, 
there  at  home),  they  rendered  her  a  thou- 
sand little  services.  She  loved  them  well, 
moreover,  her  four  enemies,  since  the  peasan- 
try feels  no  patriotic  hatred;  that  belongs 
to  the  upper  class  alone.  The  humble,  those 
who  pay  the  most,  because  they  are  poor, 
and  because  every  new  burden  crushes  them 
down  ;  those  who  are  killed  in  masses,  who 
make  the  true  cannon 's-meat,  because  they 
are  so  many  ;  those,  in  fine,  who  suffer  most 
cruelly  the  atrocious  miseries  of  war,  because 
they  are  the  feeblest,  and  offer  least  resist- 


LA   MERE   SAUVAGE.  97 

ance — they  hardly  understand  at  all  those 
bellicose  ardors,  that  excitable  sense  of  hon- 
or, or  those  pretended  political  combinations 
which  in  six  months  exhaust  two  nations, 
the  conqueror  with  the  conquered. 

They  said  on  the  country-side,  in  speak- 
ing of  the  Germans  of  La  Mere  Sauvage : 

"  There  are  four  who  have  found  a  soft 
place." 

Now,  one  morning,  when  the  old  woman 
was  alone  in  the  house,  she  perceived  far 
off  on  the  plain  a  man  coming  towards  her 
dwelling.  Soon  she  recognized  him;  it 
was  the  postman  charged  to  distribute  the 
letters.  He  gave  her  a  folded  paper,  and 
she  drew  out  of  her  case  the  spectacles 
which  she  used  for  sewing ;  then  she  read : 

"  Madame  Sauvage, — The  present  letter 
is  to  tell  you  sad  news.  Your  boy  Victor  was 
killed  yesterday  by  a  shell  which  near  cut 
him  in  two.  I  was  just  by,  seeing  that  we 
stood  next  each  other  in  the  company,  and 
he  would  talk  to  me  about  you  to  let  you 
know  on  the  same  day  if  anything  happened 
to  him. 
7 


98  the  odd  number. 

"  I  took  his  watch,  which  was  in  his  pock- 
et, to  bring  it  back  to  you  when  the  war  is 
done. 

"  I  salute  you  very  friendly. 

"  Cesaire  Rivot, 

"Soldier  of  the  2d  class,  March.  Reg.  No.  23." 

The  letter  was  dated  three  weeks  back. 

She  did  not  cry  at  all.  She  remained  mo- 
tionless, so  seized  and  stupefied  that  she  did 
not  even  suffer  as  yet.  She  thought :  "  Via 
Victor  who  is  killed  now."  Then  little  by 
little  the  tears  mounted  to  her  eyes,  and  the 
sorrow  caught  her  heart.  The  ideas  came 
to  her,  one  by  one,  dreadful,  torturing.  She 
would  never  kiss  him  again,  her  child,  her 
big  boy,  never  again !  The  gendarmes  had 
killed  the  father,  the  Prussians  had  killed 
the  son.  He  had  been  cut  in  two  by  a  can- 
non-ball. She  seemed  to  see  the  thing,  the 
horrible  thing  :  the  head  falling,  the  eyes 
open,  while  he  chewed  the  corner  of  his  big 
mustache  as  he  always  did  in  moments  of 
anger. 

What  had  they  done  with  his  body  after- 
wards?   If  they  had  only  let  her  have  her 


LA    MERE   SAUVAGE.  99 

boy  back  as  they  had  given  her  back  her 
husband — with  the  bullet  in  the  middle  of 
his  forehead  1 

But  she  heard  a  noise  of  voices.  It  was 
the  Prussians  returning  from  the  village.  She 
hid  her  letter  very  quickly  in  her  pocket,  and 
she  received  them  quietly,  with  her  ordinary 
face,  having  had  time  to  wipe  her  eyes. 

They  were  laughing,  all  four,  delighted, 
since  they  brought  with  them  a  fine  rabbit — ■ 
stolen,  doubtless— and  they  made  signs  to 
the  old  woman  that  there  was  to  be  some- 
thing good  to  eat. 

She  set  herself  to  work  at  once  to  prepare 
breakfast ;  but  when  it  came  to  killing  the 
rabbit,  her  heart  failed  her.  And  yet  it  was 
not  the  first.  One  of  the  soldiers  struck  it 
down  with  a  blow  of  his  fist  behind  the  ears. 

The  beast  once  dead,  she  separated  the 
red  body  from  the  skin  ;  but  the  sight  of 
the  blood  which  she  was  touching,  and  which 
covered  her  hands,  of  the  warm  blood  which 
she  felt  cooling  and  coagulating,  made  her 
tremble  from  head  to  foot ;  and  she  kept 
seeing  her  big  boy  cut  in  two,  and  quite  red 
also,  like  this  still  palpitating  animal. 


IOO  THE    ODD    NUMBER. 

She  set  herself  at  table  with  the  Prus- 
sians, but  she  could  not  eat,  not  even  a 
mouthful.  They  devoured  the  rabbit  with- 
out troubling  themselves  about  her.  She 
looked  at  them  askance,  without  speaking, 
ripening  a  thought,  and  with  a  face  so  im- 
passible that  they  perceived  nothing. 

All  of  a  sudden,  she  said  :  "  I  don't  even 
know  your  names,  and  here's  a  whole  month 
that  we've  been  together."  They  under- 
stood, not  without  difficulty,  what  she  want- 
ed, and  told  their  names.  That  was  not 
sufficient;  she  had  them  written  for  her  on 
a  paper,  with  the  addresses  of  their  fami- 
lies, and,  resting  her  spectacles  on  her  great 
nose,  she  considered  that  strange  handwrit- 
ing, then  folded  the  sheet  and  put  it  in  her 
pocket,  on  top  of  the  letter  which  told  her 
of  the  death  of  her  son. 

When  the  meal  was  ended,  she  said  to  the 
men : 

"  I  am  going  to  work  for  you." 

And  she  began  to  carry  up  hay  into  the 
loft  where  they  slept. 

They  were  astonished  at  her  taking  all 
this  trouble ;    she   explained  to  them  that 


LA    MERE    SAUVAGE.  IOI 

thus  they  would  not  be  so  cold ;  and  they 
helped  her.  They  heaped  the  trusses  of 
hay  as  high  as  the  straw  roof ;  and  in  that 
manner  they  made  a  sort  of  great  cham- 
ber with  four  walls  of  fodder,  warm  and 
perfumed,  where  they  should  sleep  splen- 
didly. 

At  dinner,  one  of  them  was  worried  to  see 
that  La  Mere  Sauvage  still  ate  nothing.  She 
told  him  that  she  had  the  cramps.  Then  she 
kindled  a  good  fire  to  warm  herself  up,  and 
the  four  Germans  mounted  to  their  lodging- 
place  by  the  ladder  which  served  them  every 
night  for  this  purpose. 

As  soon  as  they  closed  the  trap,  the  old 
woman  removed  the  ladder,  then  opened 
the  outside  door  noiselessly,  and  went  back 
to  look  for  more  bundles  of  straw,  with 
which  she  filled  her  kitchen.  She  went  bare- 
foot in  the  snow,  so  softly  that  no  sound  was 
heard.  From  time  to  time  she  listened  to 
the  sonorous  and  unequal  snorings  of  the 
four  soldiers  who  were  fast  asleep. 

When  she  judged  her  preparations  to  be 
sufficient,  she  threw  one  of  the  bundles  into 
the  fireplace,  and  when  it  was  alight  she 


102  THE   ODD    NUMRER. 

scattered  it  over  all  the  others.  Then  she 
went  outside  again  and  looked. 

In  a  few  seconds  the  whole  interior  of 
the  cottage  was  illumined  with  a  violent 
brightness  and  became  a  dreadful  brasier,  a 
gigantic  fiery  furnace,  whose  brilliance  spout- 
ed out  of  the  narrow  window  and  threw  a 
glittering  beam  upon  the  snow. 

Then  a  great  cry  issued  from  the  summit 
of  the  house  ;  it  was  a  clamor  of  human 
shriekings,  heart-rending  calls  of  anguish 
and  of  fear.  At  last,  the  trap  having  fallen 
in,  a  whirlwind  of  fire  shot  up  into  the  loft, 
pierced  the  straw  roof,  rose  to  the  sky  like 
the  immense  flame  of  a  torch ;  and  all  the 
cottage  flared. 

Nothing  more  was  heard  therein  but  the 
crackling  of  the  fire,  the  crackling  sound  of 
the  walls,  the  falling  of  the  rafters.  All  of 
a  sudden  the  roof  fell  in,  and  the  burn- 
ing carcass  of  the  dwelling  hurled  a  great 
plume  of  sparks  into  the  air,  amid  a  cloud 
of  smoke. 

The  country,  all  white,  lit  up  by  the  fire, 
shone  like  a  cloth  of  silver  tinted  with  red. 

A  bell,  far  off,  began  to  toll. 


LA   MERE   SAUVAGE.  103 

The  old  "  Sauvage "  remained  standing 
before  her  ruined  dwelling,  armed  with  her 
gun,  her  son's  gun,  for  fear  lest  one  cf  those 
men  might  escape. 

When  she  saw  that  it  was  ended,  she 
threw  her  weapon  into  the  brasier.  A  loud 
report  rang  back. 

People  were  coming,  the  peasants,  the 
Prussians. 

They  found  the  woman  seated  on  the 
trunk  of  a  tree,  calm  and  satisfied. 

A  German  officer,  who  spoke  French  like 
a  son  of  France,  demanded  of  her : 

"Where  are  your  soldiers?" 

She  extended  her  thin  arm  towards  the 
red  heap  of  fire  which  was  gradually  going 
out,  and  she  answered  with  a  strong  voice : 

"  There !" 

They  crowded  round  her.  The  Prussian 
asked : 

"  How  did  it  take  fire  ?" 

She  said : 

"It  was  I  who  set  it  on  fire." 

They  did  not  believe  her,  they  thought 
that  the  sudden  disaster  had  made  her 
crazy.      So,  while    all    pressed   round   and 


104  THE   ODD    NUMBER. 

listened,  she  told  the  thing  from  one  end  to 
the  other,  from  the  arrival  of  the  letter  to 
the  last  cry  of  the  men  who  were  burned 
with  her  house.  She  did  not  forget  a  detail 
of  all  which  she  had  felt,  nor  of  all  which 
she  had  done. 

When  she  had  finished,  she  drew  two 
pieces  of  paper  from  her  pocket,  and,  to  dis- 
tinguish them  by  the  last  glimmers  of  the 
fire,  she  again  adjusted  her  spectacles  ;  then 
she  said,  showing  one:  "That,  that  is  the 
death  of  Victor."  Showing  the  other,  she 
added,  indicating  the  red  ruins  with  a  bend 
of  the  head:  "That,  that  is  their  names, 
so  that  you  can  write  home."  She  calmly 
held  the  white  sheet  out  to  the  officer,  who 
held  her  by  the  shoulders,  and  she  con- 
tinued : 

"  You  must  write  how  it  happened,  and 
you  must  say  to  their  mothers  that  it  was  I 
who  did  that,  Victoire  Simon,  la  Sauvage ! 
Do  not  forget." 

The  officer  shouted  some  orders  in  Ger- 
man. They  seized  her,  they  threw  her 
against  the  walls  of  her  house,  still  hot. 
Then  twelve  men  drew  quickly  up  before 


LA   MERE   SAUVAGE.  1 05 

her,  at  twenty  paces.  She  did  not  move. 
She  had  understood ;  she  waited. 

An  order  rang  out,  followed  instantly  by 
a  long  report.  A  belated  shot  went  off  by 
itself,  after  the  others. 

The  old  woman  did  not  fall.  She  sank 
as  though  they  had  mowed  off  her  legs. 

The  Prussian  officer  approached.  She 
was  almost  cut  in  two,  and  in  her  withered 
hand  she  held  her  letter  bathed  with  blood. 


My  friend  Serval  added  : 

"  It  was  by  way  of  reprisal  that  the  Ger- 
mans destroyed  the  chateau  of  the  district, 
which  belonged  to  me." 

As  for  me,  I  thought  of  the  mothers  of 
those  four  gentle  fellows  burned  in  that 
house  ;  and  of  the  atrocious  heroism  of  that 
other  mother  shot  against  the  wall. 

And  I  picked  up  a  little  stone,  still  black- 
ened by  the  flames. 


VII. 


MOONLIGHT. 


MOONLIGHT. 


The  Abbe  Marignan,  as  soldier  of  the 
Church,  bore  his  righting  title  well.  He  was 
a  tall,  thin  priest,  very  fanatical,  of  an  ec- 
static but  upright  soul.  All  his  beliefs 
were  fixed,  without  ever  a  wavering.  He 
thought  that  he  understood  God  thoroughly, 
that  he  penetrated  His  designs,  His  wishes, 
His  intentions. 

When  he  promenaded  with  great  strides 
in  the  garden  walk  of  his  little  country  par- 
sonage, sometimes  a  question  rose  in  his 
mind  :  "  Why  did  God  make  that  ?"  And 
in  fancy  taking  the  place  of  God,  he  search- 
ed obstinately,  and  nearly  always  he  found 
the  reason.  It  is  not  he  who  would  have 
murmured  in  a  transport  of  pious  humility, 


IIO  THE   ODD   NUMBER. 

"  O  Lord,  thy  ways  are  past  finding  out !" 
He  said  to  himself,  "  I  am  the  servant  of 
God ;  I  ought  to  know  the  reason  of  what 
He  does,  or  to  divine  it  if  I  do  not." 

Everything  in  nature  seemed  to  him  cre- 
ated with  an  absolute  and  admirable  logic. 
The  "wherefore"  and  the  "because"  were 
always  balanced.  The  dawns  were  made  to 
render  glad  your  waking,  the  clays  to  ripen 
the  harvests,  the  rains  to  water  them,  the 
evenings  to  prepare  for  sleeping,  and  the 
nights  dark  for  sleep. 

The  four  seasons  corresponded  perfectly 
to  all  the  needs  of  agriculture  ;  and  to  him 
the  suspicion  could  never  have  come  that 
nature  has  no  intentions,  and  that  all  which 
lives  has  bent  itself,  on  the  contrary,  to  the 
hard  conditions  of  different  periods,  of  cli- 
mates, and  of  matter. 

Only  he  did  hate  women  ;  he  hated  them 
unconscionably,  and  he  despised  them  b_y 
instinct.  He  often  repeated  the  words  of 
Christ,  "  Woman,  what  have  I  to  do  with 
thee  ?"  and  he  added,  "  One  would  almost 
say  that  God  himself  was  ill-pleased  with 
that  particular  work  of  his  hands."   Woman 


MOONLIGHT.  1 1 1 

was  indeed  for  him  the  "  child  twelve  times 
unclean  "  of  whom  the  poet  speaks.  She 
was  the  temptress  who  had  ensnared  the 
first  man,  and  who  still  continued  her  work 
of  damnation;  she  was  the  being  who  is  fee- 
ble, dangerous,  mysteriously  troubling.  And 
even  more  than  her  body  of  perdition,  he 
hated  her  loving  soul. 

He  had  often  felt  women's  tenderness  at- 
tach itself  to  him,  and  though  he  knew  him- 
self to  be  unassailable,  he  grew  exasperated 
at  that  need  of  loving  which  quivered  always 
in  their  hearts. 

God,  to  his  mind,  had  only  created  woman 
to  tempt  man  and  to  prove  him.  You  should 
not  approach  her  without  those  precautions 
for  defence  which  you  would  take,  and  those 
fears  which  you  would  cherish,  near  a  trap. 
She  was,  indeed,  just  like  a  trap,  with  her 
arms  extended  and  her  lips  open  towards  a 
man. 

He  had  indulgence  only  for  nuns,  ren- 
dered harmless  by  their  vow ;  but  he  treat- 
ed them  harshly  notwithstanding,  because, 
ever  living  at  the  bottom  of  their  chained- 
up  hearts,  of  their  chastened  hearts,  he  per- 


112  THE   ODD    NUMBER. 

ceived  that  eternal  tenderness  which  con- 
stantly went  out  to  him,  although  he  was  a 
priest. 

He  was  conscious  of  it  in  their  looks 
more  moist  with  piety  than  the  looks  of 
monks,  in  their  ecstasies,  in  their  transports 
of  love  towards  the  Christ,  which  angered 
him  because  it  was  women's  love ;  and  he 
was  also  conscious  of  it,  of  that  accursed 
tenderness,  in  their  very  docility,  in  the  soft- 
ness of  their  voices  when  they  spoke  to 
him,  in  their  lowered  eyes,  and  in  the  meek- 
ness of  their  tears  when  he  reproved  them 
roughly. 

And  he  shook  his  cassock  on  issuing 
from  the  doors  of  the  convent,  and  he  went 
off  with  long  strides,  as  though  he  had  fled 
before  some  danger. 

He  had  a  niece  who  lived  with  her  moth- 
er in  a  little  house  near  by.  He  was  bent 
on  making  her  a  sister  of  charity. 

She  was  pretty,  and  hare-brained,  and  a 
great  tease.  When  the  abbe  sermonized, 
she  laughed ;  when  he  was  angry  at  her,  she 
kissed  him  vehemently,  pressing  him  to  her 
heart,  while  he  would  seek  involuntarily  to 


MOONLIGHT.  1 1 3 

free  himself  from  this  embrace,  which,  not- 
withstanding, made  him  taste  a  certain  sweet 
joy,  awaking  deep  within  him  that  sensation 
of  fatherhood  which  slumbers  in  every  man. 

Often  he  talked  to  her  of  God,  of  his 
God,  walking  beside  her  along  the  foot-paths 
through  the  fields.  She  hardly  listened,  and 
looked  at  the  sky,  the  grass,  the  flowers 
with  a  joy  of  living  which  could  be  seen  in 
her  eyes.  Sometimes  she  rushed  forward 
to  catch  some  flying  creature,  and  bringing 
it  back,  would  cry :  "  Look,  my  uncle,  how 
pretty  it  is  ;  I  should  like  to  kiss  it."  And 
this  necessity  to  "  kiss  flies,"  or  lilac  berries, 
worried,  irritated,  and  revolted  the  priest, 
who  saw,  even  in  that,  the  ineradicable  ten- 
derness which  ever  springs  at  the  hearts  of 
women. 

And  now  one  day  the  sacristan's  wife, 
who  kept  house  for  the  Abbe  Marignan, 
told  him,  very  cautiously,  that  his  niece  had 
a  lover ! 

He  experienced  a  dreadful  emotion,  and 
he  stood  choked,  with  the  soap  all  over 
his  face,  being  in  the  act  of  shaving. 

When  he  found  himself  able  to  think  and 
8 


114  THE   ODD    NUMBER. 

speak  once  more,  he  cried :  "  It  is  not  true  ; 
you  are  lying,  Melanie  !" 

But  the  peasant  woman  put  her  hand  on 
her  heart :  "  May  our  Lord  judge  me  if  I  am 
lying,  Monsieur  le  Cure.  I  tell  you  she  goes 
to  him  every  evening  as  soon  as  your  sister 
is  in  bed.  They  meet  each  other  beside  the 
river.  You  have  only  to  go  there  between 
ten  o'clock  and  midnight,  and  see  for  your- 
self." 

He  ceased  scratching  his  chin,  and  he 
commenced  to  walk  the  room  violently,  as  he 
always  did  in  his  hours  of  gravest  thought. 
When  he  tried  to  begin  his  shaving  again, 
he  cut  himself  three  times  from  nose  to  ear. 

All  day  long,  he  remained  silent,  swollen 
with  anger  and  with  rage.  To  his  priestly 
zeal  against  the  mighty  power  of  love  was 
added  the  moral  indignation  of  a  father,  of 
a  teacher,  of  a  keeper  of  souls,  who  has  been 
deceived,  robbed,  played  with  by  a  child. 
He  had  that  egotistical  choking  sensation 
such  as  parents  feel  when  their  daughter 
anounces  that  she  has  chosen  a  husband 
without  them  and  in  spite  of  their  advice. 

After  his  dinner,  he  tried  to  read  a  lit- 


MOONLIGHT.  I«5 

tie,  but  he  could  not  bring  himself  so  far ; 
and  he  grew  angrier  and  angrier.  When  it 
struck  ten,  he  took  his  cane,  a  formidable 
oaken  club  which  he  always  carried  when 
he  had  to  go  out  at  night  to  visit  the  sick. 
And  he  smilingly  regarded  the  enormous 
cudgel,  holding  it  in  his  solid,  countryman's 
fist  and  cutting  threatening  circles  with  it  in 
the  air.  Then,  suddenly  he  raised  it,  and 
grinding  his  teeth,  he  brought  it  down  upon 
a  chair,  the  back  of  which,  split  in  two,  fell 
heavily  to  the  ground. 

He  opened  his  door  to  go  out;  but  he  stop- 
ped upon  the  threshold,  surprised  by  such  a 
splendor  of  moonlight  as  you  seldom  see. 

And  since  he  was  endowed  with  an  ex- 
alted spirit,  such  a  spirit  as  must  have  be- 
longed to  those  dreamer-poets,  the  Fathers 
of  the  Church,  he  felt  himself  suddenly  dis- 
tracted, moved  by  the  grand  and  serene 
beauty  of  the  pale-faced  night. 

In  his  little  garden,  quite  bathed  with  the 
soft  brilliance,  his  fruit-trees,  all  arow,  were 
outlining  in  shadow  upon  the  walk,  their 
slender  limbs  of  wood  scarce  clothed  by 
verdure  ;  while  the  giant  honevsuckle  climb- 


Il6  THE    ODD    NUMBER. 

ing  on  the  house  wall,  exhaled  delicious, 
sujrared  breaths,  and  seemed  to  cause  to 
hover  through  the  warm  clear  night  a  per- 
fumed soul. 

He  began  to  breathe  deep,  drinking  the 
air  as  drunkards  drink  their  wine,  and  he 
walked  slowly,  being  ravished,  astounded, 
and  almost  oblivious  of  his  niece. 

As  soon  as  he  came  into  the  open  coun- 
try he  stopped  to  contemplate  the  whole 
plain,  so  inundated  by  this  caressing  radi- 
ance, so  drowned  in  the  tender  and  languish- 
ing charm  of  the  serene  nights.  At  every 
instant  the  frogs  threw  into  space  their  short 
metallic  notes,  and  the  distant  nightingales 
mingled  with  the  seduction  of  the  moonlight 
that  fitful  music  of  theirs  which  brings  no 
thoughts  but  dreams,  that  light  and  vibrant 
melody  of  theirs  which  is  composed  for 
kisses. 

The  abbe  continued  his  course,  his  cour- 
age failing,  he  knew  not  why.  He  felt,  as 
it  were,  enfeebled,  and  suddenly  exhausted  ; 
he  had  a  great  desire  to  sit  down,  to  pause 
here,  to  praise  God  in  all  His  works. 

Down  there,  following  the  bends  of  the 


MOONLIGHT.  117 

little  river,  wound  a  great  line  of  poplars. 
On  and  about  the  banks,  wrapping  all  the 
tortuous  watercourse  with  a  kind  of  light, 
transparent  wadding,  hung  suspended  a  fine 
mist,  a  white  vapor,  which  the  moon-rays 
crossed,  and  silvered,  and  caused  to  gleam. 

The  priest  paused  yet  again,  penetrated 
to  the  bottom  of  his  soul  by  a  strong  and 
growing  emotion. 

And  a  doubt,  a  vague  uneasiness,  seized 
on  him ;  he  perceived  that  one  of  those 
questions  which  he  sometimes  put  to  him- 
self, was  now  being  born. 

Why  had  God  done  this?  Since  the 
night  is  destined  for  sleep,  for  unconscious- 
ness, for  repose,  for  forgetful ness  of  every- 
thing, why,  then,  make  it  more  charming 
than  the  day,  sweeter  than  the  dawns  and 
the  sunsets  ?  And  this  slow  seductive  star, 
more  poetical  than  the  sun,  and  so  discreet 
that  it  seems  designed  to  light  up  things  too 
delicate,  too  mysterious,  for  the  great  lumi- 
nary,— why  was  it  come  to  brighten  all  the 
shades  ? 

Why  did  not  the  cleverest  of  all  song- 
sters go  to  rest  like  the  others  ?     And  why 


Il8  THE    ODD    NUMBER. 

did  he  set  himself  to  singing  in  the  vaguely 
troubling  dark  ? 

Why  this  half-veil  over  the  world  ?  Why 
these  quiverings  of  the  heart,  this  emotion 
of  the  soul,  this  languor  of  the  body  ? 

Why  this  display  of  seductions  which  man- 
kind never  sees,  being  asleep  in  bed  ?  For 
whom  was  intended  this  sublime  spectacle, 
this  flood  of  poetry  poured  from  heaven  to 
earth  ? 

And  the  abbe  did  not  understand  at  all. 

But  now,  see,  down  there  along  the  edge 
of  the  field  appeared  two  shadows  walking 
side  by  side  under  the  arched  roof  of  the 
trees  all  soaked  in  glittering  mist. 

The  man  was  the  taller,  and  had  his  arm 
about  his  mistress's  neck,  and  from  time  to 
time  he  kissed  her  on  the  forehead.  They 
animated  suddenly  the  lifeless  landscape, 
which  enveloped  them  like  a  divine  frame 
made  expressly  for  this.  They  seemed,  these 
two,  like  one  being,  the  being  for  whom  was 
destined  this  calm  and  silent  night;  and 
they  came  on  towards  the  priest  like  a  living 
answer,  the  answer  vouchsafed  by  his  Mas- 
ter to  his  question. 


MOONLIGHT.  119 

He  stood  stock-still,  quite  overwhelm- 
ed, and  with  a  beating  heart.  And  he 
thought  to  see  here  some  Bible  story,  like 
the  loves  of  Ruth  and  Boaz,  the  accomplish- 
ment of  the  will  of  the  Lord  in  one  of  those 
great  scenes  talked  of  in  the  holy  books. 
Through  his  head  began  to  hum  the  versi- 
cles  of  the  Song  of  Songs,  the  ardent  cries, 
the  calls  of  the  body,  all  the  passionate 
poetry  of  that  poem  which  burns  with  ten- 
derness and  love. 

And  he  said  to  himself,  "  God  perhaps 
has  made  such  nights  as  this  to  clothe  with 
the  ideal  the  loves  of  men." 

He  withdrew  before  this  couple  who  went 
ever  arm  in  arm.  For  all  that,  it  was  really 
his  niece ;  but  now  he  asked  himself  if  he 
had  not  been  about  to  disobey  God.  And 
does  not  God  indeed  permit  love,  since  He 
surrounds  it  visibly  with  splendor  such  as 
this? 

And  he  fled,  in  a  maze,  almost  ashamed, 
as  if  he  had  penetrated  into  a  temple  where 
he  had  not  the  right  to  go. 


VIII. 


THE    CONFESSION. 


THE    CONFESSION. 


Marguerite  de  Therelles  was  dying. 
Although  but  fifty-six,  she  seemed  like  sev- 
enty-five at  least.  She  panted,  paler  than 
the  sheets,  shaken  by  dreadful  shiverings, 
her  face  convulsed,  her  eyes  haggard,  as  if 
she  had  seen  some  horrible  thing. 

Her  eldest  sister,  Suzanne,  six  years  old- 
er, sobbed  on  her  knees  beside  the  bed.  A 
little  table  drawn  close  to  the  couch  of  the 
dying  woman,  and  covered  with  a  napkin, 
bore  two  lighted  candles,  the  priest  being 
momentarily  expected  to  give  extreme  unc- 
tion and  the  communion,  which  should  be 
the  last. 

The  apartment  had  that  sinister  aspect, 
that  air  of  hopeless  farewells,  which  belongs 


124  THE   ODD    NUMBER. 

to  the  chambers  of  the  dying.  Medicine 
bottles  stood  about  on  the  furniture,  linen 
lay  in  the  corners,  pushed  aside  by  foot  or 
broom.  The  disordered  chairs  themselves 
seemed  affrighted,  as  if  they  had  run,  in  all 
the  senses  of  the  word.  Death,  the  formi- 
dable, was  there,  hidden,  waiting. 

The  story  of  the  two  sisters  was  very 
touching.  It  was  quoted  far  and  wide ;  it 
had  made  many  eyes  to  weep. 

Suzanne,  the  elder,  had  once  been  madly 
in  love  with  a  young  man,  who  had  also  been 
in  love  with  her.  They  were  engaged,  and 
were  only  waiting  the  day  fixed  for  the  con- 
tract, when  Henry  de  Lampierre  suddenly 
died. 

The  despair  of  the  young  girl  was  dread- 
ful, and  she  vowed  that  she  would  never 
marry.  She  kept  her  word.  She  put  on 
widow's  weeds,  which  she  never  took  off. 

Then  her  sister,  her  little  sister  Margue- 
rite, who  was  only  twelve  years  old,  came 
one  morning  to  throw  herself  into  the  arms 
of  the  elder,  and  said :  "  Big  Sister,  I  do  not 
want  thee  to  be  unhappy.  I  do  not  want 
thee  to  cry  all  thy  life.     I  will  never  leave 


THE    CONFESSION.  I  25 

thee,  never,  never  !  I — I,  too,  shall  never 
marry.  I  shall  stay  with  thee  always,  always, 
always  !" 

Suzanne,  touched  by  the  devotion  of  the 
child,  kissed  her,  but  did  not  believe. 

Yet  the  little  one,  also,  kept  her  word, 
and  despite  the  entreaties  of  her  parents, 
despite  the  supplications  of  the  elder,  she 
never  married.  She  was  pretty,  very  pretty ; 
she  refused  many  a  young  man  who  seemed 
to  love  her  truly;  and  she  never  left  her  sis- 
ter more. 


They  lived  together  all  the  days  of  their 
life,  without  ever  being  separated  a  single 
time.  They  went  side  by  side,  inseparably 
united.  But  Marguerite  seemed  always  sad, 
oppressed,  more  melancholy  than  the  elder, 
as  though  perhaps  her  sublime  sacrifice  had 
broken  her  spirit.  She  aged  more  quickly, 
had  white  hair  from  the  age  of  thirty,  and 
often  suffering,  seemed  afflicted  by  some  se- 
cret, gnawing  trouble. 

Now  she  was  to  be  the  first  to  die. 

Since  yesterday  she  was  no  longer  able  to 


126  THE   ODD    NUMBER. 

speak.  She  had  only  said,  at  the  first  glim- 
mers of  day- dawn  : 

"  Go  fetch  Monsieur  le  Cure,  the  moment 
has  come." 

And  she  had  remained  since  then  upon 
her  back,  shaken  with  spasms,  her  lips  agi- 
tated as  though  dreadful  words  were  mount- 
ing from  her  heart  without  power  of  issue, 
her  look  mad  with  fear,  terrible  to  see. 

Her  sister,  torn  by  sorrow,  wept  wildly,  her 
forehead  resting  on  the  edge  of  the  bed,  and 
kept  repeating : 

"  Margot,  my  poor  Margot,  my  little 
one  !" 

She  had  always  called  her,  "Little  One," 
just  as  the  younger  had  always  called  her 
"  Big  Sister." 

Steps  were  heard  on  the  stairs.  The  door 
opened.  A  choir-boy  appeared,  followed  by 
an  old  priest  in  a  surplice.  As  soon  as  she 
perceived  him,  the  dying  woman,  with  one 
shudder,  sat  up,  opened  her  lips,  stammered 
two  or  three  words,  and  began  to  scratch 
the  sheet  with  her  nails  as  if  she  had  wished 
to  make  a  hole. 

The  Abbe   Simon   approached,  took  her 


THE   CONFESSION.  I  27 

hand,  kissed  her  brow,  and  with  a  soft 
voice : 

"  God  pardon  thee,  my  child  ;  have  cour- 
age, the  moment  is  now  come,  speak." 

Then  Marguerite,  shivering  from  head  to 
foot,  shaking  her  whole  couch  with  nervous 
movements,  stammered  : 

"  Sit  down,  Big  Sister  .  .  .  listen." 

The  priest  bent  down  towards  Suzanne, 
who  was  still  flung  upon  the  bed's  foot.  He 
raised  her,  placed  her  in  an  arm-chair,  and 
taking  a  hand  of  each  of  the  sisters  in  one 
of  his  own,  he  pronounced  : 

"  Lord,  my  God  !  Endue  them  with 
strength,  cast  Thy  mercy  upon  them." 

And  Marguerite  began  to  speak.  The 
words  issued  from  her  throat  one  by  one, 
raucous,  with  sharp  pauses,  as  though  very 
feeble. 


"Pardon,  pardon,  Big  Sister;  oh,  forgive! 

If  thou  knewest  how  I  have  had  fear  of  this 

moment  all  my  life  .  .  ." 

Suzanne  stammered  through  her  tears  : 
"  Forgive  thee  what,  Little  One  ?     Thou 


I2»  THE   ODD    NUMBER* 

hast  given  all  to  me,  sacrificed  everything ; 
thou  art  an  angel  .  .  ." 

But  Marguerite  interrupted  her : 

"Hush,  hush!  Let  me  speak  ...  do  not 
stop  me.  It  is  dreadful ...  let  me  tell  all .  . . 
to  the  very  end,  without  flinching.  Listen. 
Thou  rememberest . . .  thou  rememberest .  . . 
Henry  .  .  ." 

Suzanne  trembled  and  looked  at  her  sis- 
ter.    The  younger  continued  : 

"  Thou  must  hear  all,  to  understand.  I 
was  twelve  years  old,  only  twelve  years  old; 
thou  rememberest  well,  is  it  not  so  ?  And  I 
was  spoiled,  I  did  everything  that  I  liked  ! 
Thou  rememberest,  surely,  how  they  spoiled 
me  ?  Listen.  The  first  time  that  he  came 
he  had  varnished  boots.  He  got  down  from 
his  horse  at  the  great  steps,  and  he  begged 
pardon  for  his  costume,  but  he  came  to  bring 
some  news  to  papa.  Thou  rememberest,  is 
it  not  so  ?  Don't  speak — listen.  When  I  saw 
him  I  was  completely  carried  away,  I  found 
him  so  very  beautiful;  and  I  remained  stand- 
ing in  a  corner  of  the  salon  all  the  time  that  he 
was  talking.  Children  are  strange  . . .  and  ter- 
rible.   Oh  yes  ...  I  have  dreamed  of  all  that. 


THE   CONFESSION.  1 29 

"  He  came  back  again  . . .  several  times . . . 
I  looked  at  him  with  all  my  eyes,  with  all  my 
soul ...  I  was  large  of  my  age  . .  .  and  very 
much  more  knowing  than  any  one  thought. 
He  came  back  often  ...  I  thought  only  of 
him.     I  said,  very  low  : 

"  '  Henry  .  .  .  Henry  de  Lampierre  !' 

"  Then  they  said  that  he  was  going  to 
marry  thee.  It  was  a  sorrow ;  oh,  Big  Sis- 
ter, a  sorrow  ...  a  sorrow  !  I  cried  for  three 
nights  without  sleeping.  He  came  back  ev- 
ery day,  in  the  afternoon,  after  his  lunch  . . . 
thou  rememberest,  is  it  not  so?  Say  noth- 
ing . . .  listen.  Thou  madest  him  cakes  which 
he  liked  .  .  .  with  meal,  with  butter  and  milk. 
Oh,  I  know  well  how.  I  could  make  them 
yet  if  it  were  needed.  He  ate  them  at  one 
mouthful,  and  .  .  .  and  then  he  drank  a  glass 
of  wine,  and  then  he  said,  '  It  is  delicious.' 
Thou  rememberest  how  he  would  say  that  ? 

"  I  was  jealous,  jealous  !  The  moment  of 
thy  marriage  approached.  There  were  only 
two  weeks  more.  I  became  crazy.  I  said 
to  myself :  '  He  shall  not  marry  Suzanne, 
no,  I  will  not  have  it !  It  is  I  whom  he  will 
marry  when  I  am  grown  up.     I  shall  never 

9 


130  THE   ODD   NUMBER. 

find  any  one  whom  I  love  so  much.'  But 
one  night,  ten  days  before  the  contract,  thou 
tookest  a  walk  with  him  in  front  of  the  cha- 
teau by  moonlight . . .  and  there . . .  under  the 
fir,  under  the  great  fir  . . .  he  kissed  thee  . . . 
kissed  . . .  holding  thee  in  his  two  arms  ...  so 
lon<r.  Thou  rememberest,  is  it  not  so  ?  It 
was  probably  the  first  time  . . .  yes  . . .  Thou 
wast  so  pale  when  thou  earnest  back  to  the 
sala?t. 

"  I  had  seen  you  two ;  I  was  there,  in  the 
shrubbery.  I  was  angry !  If  I  could  I  should 
have  killed  you  both  ! 

"  I  said  to  myself :  '  He  shall  not  marry 
Suzanne,  never!  He  shall  marry  no  one. 
I  should  be  too  unhappy.'  And  all  of  a  sud- 
den I  began  to  hate  him  dreadfully. 

"  Then,  dost  thou  know  what  I  did  ?  Lis- 
ten. I  had  seen  the  gardener  making  little 
balls  to  kill  strange  dogs.  He  pounded  up 
a  bottle  with  a  stone  and  put  the  powdered 
glass  in  a  little  ball  of  meat. 

"  I  took  a  little  medicine  bottle  that  mam- 
ma had ;  I  broke  it  small  with  a  hammer, 
and  I  hid  the  glass  in  my  pocket.  It  was 
a  shining  powder .  . .    The  next  day,  as  soon 


THE   CONFESSION.  131 

as  you  had  made  the  little  cakes  ...  I  split 
them  with  a  knife  and  I  put  in  the  glass  .  .  . 
He  ate  three  of  them ...  I  too,  I  ate  one  . . . 
I  threw  the  other  six  into  the  pond.  The  two 
swans  died  three  days  after  .  .  .  Dost  thou 
remember  ?  Oh,  say  nothing . . .  listen,  listen. 
I,  I  alone  did  not  die .  . .  but  I  have  always 
been  sick.  Listen . . .  He  died — thou  know- 
est  well . . .  listen . . .  that,  that  is  nothing.  It 
is  afterwards,  later  .  .  .  always  .  .  .  the  worst 
. .  .  listen. 

"  My  life,  all  my  life  .  .  .  what  torture  !  I 
said  to  myself :  '  I  will  never  leave  my  sister. 
And  at  the  hour  of  death  I  will  tell  her  all . . .' 
There !  And  ever  since,  I  have  always 
thought  of  that  moment  when  I  should  tell 
thee  all.  Now  it  is  come.  It  is  terrible. 
Oh  .  .  .  Big  Sister ! 

"  I  have  always  thought,  morning  and  even- 
ing, by  night  and  by  day, '  Some  time  I  must 
tell  her  that  .  .  .'  I  waited  .  .  .  What 
agony ! .  .  .  It  is  done.  Say  nothing.  Now 
I  am  afraid ...  am  afraid ...  oh,  I  am  afraid. 
If  I  am  going  to  see  him  again,  soon,  when 
I  am  dead.  See  him  again  .  .  .  think  of  it ! 
The  first !     Before  thou  !     I  shall  not  dare. 


132  THE   ODD   NUMBER. 

I  must ...  I  am  going  to  die  ...  I  want  you 
to  forgive  me.  I  want  it ...  I  cannot  go  off 
to  meet  him  without  that.  Oh,  tell  her  to 
forgive  me,  Monsieur  le  Cure,  tell  her  ...  I 
implore  you  to  do  it.  I  cannot  die  without 
that  .  .  .". 


She  was  silent,  and  remained  panting,  al- 
ways scratching  the  sheet  with  her  withered 
nails. 

Suzanne  had  hidden  her  face  in  her  hands, 
and  did  not  move.  She  was  thinking  of 
him  whom  she  might  have  loved  so  long! 
What  a  good  life  they  should  have  lived  to- 
gether !  She  saw  him  once  again  in  that 
vanished  by-gone  time,  in  that  old  past  which 
was  put  out  forever.  The  beloved  dead — 
how  they  tear  your  hearts !  Oh,  that  kiss, 
his  only  kiss  !  She  had  hidden  it  in  her 
soul.  And  after  it  nothing,  nothing  more 
her  whole  life  long ! 


All  of  a  sudden  the  priest  stood  straight, 
and,  with  strong  vibrant  voice,  he  cried  : 


THE   CONFESSION.  133 

"  Mademoiselle  Suzanne,  your  sister  is 
dying !" 

Then  Suzanne,  opening  her  hands,  show- 
ed her  face  soaked  with  tears,  and  throwing 
herself  upon  her  sister,  she  kissed  her  with 
all  her  might,  stammering  : 

"  I  forgive  thee,  I  forgive  thee,  Little 
One." 


IX. 


ON    THE    JOURNEY. 


ON    THE    JOURNEY. 


Since  leaving  Cannes  the  carriage  had 
been  full ;  and  being  all  acquainted,  we  con- 
versed together.  As  we  passed  Tarascon 
some  one  said,  "  It  is  here  the  murders 
happen."  And  we  began  to  talk  of  that 
mysterious  assassin  who  has  never  been 
caught,  and  who  from  time  to  time  during 
the  last  two  years  has  offered  up  to  himself 
some  traveller's  life.  Every  one  hazarded 
suppositions,  every  one  gave  his  opinion ; 
the  women  looked  shiveringly  at  the  sombre 
night  behind  the  panes,  fearing  to  see  the 
head  of  a  man  show  suddenly  in  the  door- 
way. And  we  began  to  tell  dreadful  stories 
of  terrible  adventures,  of  some  tete-a-tete  with 
a  madman  in  an  express,  of  hours  passed 


138  THE    ODD    NUMBER. 

opposite  suspicious -looking  persons,  quite 
alone. 

All  the  men  had  stories  "on  their  hon- 
or," all  had  intimidated,  knocked  down,  and 
choked  some  malefactor  in  surprising  cir- 
cumstances, and  with  admirable  boldness 
and  presence  of  mind.  A  physician,  who 
passed  each  winter  in  the  South,  wished  in 
his  turn  to  tell  a  tale. 


"  I,"  said  he,  "have  never  had  the  chance 
to  try  my  courage  in  an  affair  of  that  sort ; 
but  I  knew  a  woman,  one  of  my  patients, 
who  is  now  dead,  to  whom  there  happened 
the  strangest  thing  in  the  world,  and  also 
the  most  mysterious  and  the  most  affect- 
ing. 

"  She  was  a  Russian,  the  Countess  Marie 
Baranow,  a  very  great  lady,  of  exquisite 
beauty.  You  all  know  how  beautiful  the 
Russian  women  are,  or  at  least  how  beauti- 
ful they  seem  to  us,  with  their  fine  nostrils, 
with  their  delicate  mouths,  with  their  eyes 
of  an  indefinable  color — a  sort  of  blue-gray, 
set  close  together — and  with  that  grace  of 


ON    THE   JOURNEY.  139 

theirs  which  is  cold  and  a  little  hard.  They 
have  about  them  something  naughty  and 
seductive,  something  haughty  and  gentle, 
something  tender  and  severe,  which  is  al- 
together charming  to  a  Frenchman.  It  is 
perhaps,  however,  only  the  difference  of 
race  and  type  which  makes  me  see  so 
much. 

"  For  several  years  her  doctor  had  per- 
ceived that  she  was  threatened  with  a  mal- 
ady of  the  chest,  and  had  been  trying  to 
induce  her  to  go  to  the  South  of  France; 
but  she  obstinately  refused  to  leave  St. 
Petersburg.  Finally,  last  autumn,  the  phy- 
sician gave  her  up  as  lost,  and  so  informed 
her  husband,  who  at  once  ordered  his  wife 
to  leave  for  Mentone. 

"  She  took  the  train,  alone  in  her  carriage, 
her  servants  occupying  another  compart- 
ment. She  leaned  against  the  door-way,  a 
little  sad,  watching  the  country  and  the  pass- 
ing villages,  feeling  herself  in  life  so  lonely, 
so  abandoned,  without  children,  almost  with- 
out relatives,  with  a  husband  whose  love  was 
dead,  and  who,  not  coming  with  her,  had 
just  thrown  her  off  to  the  end  of  the  world 


140  THE   ODD    NUMBER. 

as  he  would  send  to  the  hospital  a  valet  who 
was  sick. 

"  At  each  station  her  body-servant  Ivan 
came  to  ask  if  anything  was  wanted  by  his 
mistress.  He  was  an  old  servant,  blindly 
devoted,  ready  to  carry  out  any  order  which 
she  might  give. 

"The  night  fell,  the  train  rolled  onward 
at  full  speed.  She  was  much  unstrung,  she 
could  not  sleep.  Suddenly  she  took  the  idea 
of  counting  the  money  which  her  husband 
had  given  her  at  the  last  moment,  in  French 
gold.  She  opened  her  little  bag,  and  emp- 
tied the  shining  flood  of  metal  upon  her 
knees. 

But  all  of  a  sudden  a  breath  of  cold  air 
struck  her  in  the  face.  She  raised  her 
head  in  surprise.  The  door  had  just  swung 
open.  The  Countess  Marie,  in  desperation, 
brusquely  threw  a  shawl  over  the  money 
which  was  spread  upon  her  knees,  and 
waited.  Some  seconds  passed,  then  a  man 
appeared,  bareheaded,  wounded  in  the  hand, 
panting,  in  evening  dress.  He  shut  the 
door  again,  sat  down,  looked  at  his  neighbor 
with  glittering  eyes,  then  wrapped  a  hand- 


ON    THE  JOURNEY.  14I 

kerchief  round  his  wrist,  from  which  the 
blood  was  flowing. 

"The  young  countess  felt  herself  grow 
weak  with  fright.  This  man  had  certainly 
seen  her  counting  her  gold,  and  he  was  come 
to  murder  and  to  rob. 

"  He  kept  staring  at  her,  breathless,  his 
face  convulsed,  ready,  no  doubt,  to  make 
a  spring. 

"  He  said,  suddenly  : 

"  '  Have  no  fear,  madame  !' 

"  She  answered  nothing,  being  unable  to 
open  her  mouth,  hearing  her  heart  beat  and 
her  ears  hum. 

"  He  continued : 

"  '  I  am  not  a  criminal,  madame.' 

"  She  still  said  nothing,  but,  in  a  brusque 
movement  which  she  made,  her  knees  came 
close  together,  and  her  gold  began  to  flow 
down  upon  the  carpet  as  water  flows  from  a 
gutter. 

"  The  man,  surprised,  looked  at  this  rivulet 
of  metal,  and  suddenly  he  stooped  to  pick 
up  the  money. 

"  She  rose  in  a  mad  fright,  casting  all  her 
treasure  to  the  ground,  and  she  ran  to  the 


142  THE   ODD    NUMBER. 

door  to  throw  herself  out  upon  the  track. 
But  he  understood  what  she  was  about  to 
do,  rushed  forward,  caught  her  in  his  arms, 
made  her  sit  down  by  force,  and  holding 
her  wrists  :  '  Listen,  madame,  I  am  not  a 
criminal,  and  the  proof  is  that  I  am  going 
to  pick  up  this  money  and  give  it  back  to 
you.  But  I  am  a  lost  man,  a  dead  man,  un- 
less you  help  me  to  cross  the  frontier.  I 
cannot  tell  you  more.  In  one  hour  we  shall 
be  at  the  last  Russian  station ;  in  one  hour 
and  twenty  minutes  we  shall  pass  the  boun- 
dary of  the  empire.  If  you  do  not  rescue 
me  I  am  lost.  And  yet,  madame,  I  have 
neither  killed  nor  stolen,  nor  done  anything 
against  my  honor.  I  swear  it  to  you.  I  can- 
not tell  you  more.' 

"And  getting  down  on  his  knees,  he  pick- 
ed up  the  gold,  looking  even  for  the  last 
pieces,  which  had  rolled  far  under  the  seats. 
Then,  when  the  little  leather  bag  was  once 
more  full,  he  returned  it  to  his  neighbor 
without  adding  a  word,  and  again  he  went 
and  sat  in  the  other  corner  of  the  car- 
riage. 

"They  no  longer  stirred, either  one  or  the 


ON   THE   JOURNEY.  I43 

other.  She  remained  motionless  and  dumb, 
still  fainting  with  terror,  then  little  by  little 
growing  more  at  ease.  As  for  him,  he  did 
not  make  a  gesture,  a  movement;  he  sat 
straight,  his  eyes  fastened  before  him,  very 
pale,  as  though  he  had  been  dead.  From 
time  to  time  she  looked  at  him  suddenly, 
and  as  suddenly  looked  away.  He  was  a 
man  about  thirty,  very  handsome,  with  every 
appearance  of  a  gentleman. 

"  The  train  ran  through  the  darkness,  cast 
rending  cries  across  the  night,  sometimes 
slackened  its  pace,  then  went  off  again  at 
full  speed.  But  suddenly  it  slowed,  whistled 
several  times,  and  stopped. 

"  Ivan  appeared  at  the  door  to  get  his  or- 
ders. 

"  The  Countess  Marie,  with  a  trembling 
voice,  considered  her  strange  companion  for 
the  last  time,  then  said  to  her  servant,  with 
a  brusque  voice  : 

" '  Ivan,  you  are  to  return  to  the  count ;  I 
have  no  more  need  of  you.' 

"The  man,  speechless,  opened  his  enor- 
mous eyes.     He  stammered  : 

"  '  But— Barine  !' 


144  THE   ODD    NUMBER. 

"  She  continued  : 

" '  No,  you  are  not  to  come ;  I  have  changed 
my  mind.  I  desire  that  you  remain  in  Rus- 
sia. Here  is  money  to  return.  Give  me 
your  cap  and  your  cloak.' 

"The  old  servant,  quite  bewildered,  bared 
his  head  and  held  out  his  cloak.  He  al- 
ways obeyed  without  reply,  being  well  ac- 
customed to  the  sudden  wishes  and  the  ir- 
resistible caprices  of  his  masters.  And  he 
withdrew,  the  tears  in  his  eyes. 

"  The  train  went  on,  running  towards  the 
frontier. 

"Then  the  Countess  Marie  said  to  her 
neighbor : 

"'These  things  are  for  you,  monsieur;  you 
are  Ivan,  my  servant.  I  add  only  one  con- 
dition to  what  I  do  :  it  is  that  you  shall 
never  speak  to  me,  that  you  shall  not  ad- 
dress me  a  single  word,  either  to  thank  me 
or  for  any  purpose  whatever.' 

"The  unknown  bowed  without  uttering  a 
word. 

"  Very  soon  they  came  to  a  stop  once  more, 
and  officials  in  uniform  visited  the  train. 
The  countess  offered  them  her  papers,  and 


ON    THE   JOURNEY.  1 45 

pointing  to  the  man  seated  at  the  back  of 
the  carriage  : 

'"  My  servant,  Ivan.     Here  is  his  pass 
port.' 

"  The  train  went  on. 

"  During  the  whole  night  they  remained  in 
tete-a-tete,  both  silent. 

"  In  the  morning,  when  they  stopped  at  a 
German  station,  the  unknown  got  clown  ; 
then,  standing  straight  in  the  door-way : 

"  '  Forgive  my  breaking  my  promise,  ma- 
dame  ;  but  I  have  deprived  you  of  your  serv- 
ant, it  is  right  that  I  should  fill  his  place. 
Have  you  need  of  anything  ?' 

"  She  answered,  coldly: 

"  '  Go  and  find  my  maid.' 

"  He  went  to  do  so,  then  disappeared. 

"  When  she  got  out  of  the  carriage  at  some 
restaurant  or  other,  she  perceived  him  from 
a  distance  looking  at  her.  They  reached 
Mentone." 


The  doctor  was  silent  a  second,  then  re- 
sumed : 

"  One  day,  as  I  was  receiving  my  patients 
10 


146  THE   ODD   NUMBER. 

in  my  office,  I  saw  enter  a  tall  young  fellow, 
who  said  to  me  : 

••  •  Doctor,  I  come  to  ask  news  about  the 
Countess  Marie  Baranow.  I  am,  although 
she  does  not  know  me,  a  friend  of  her  hus- 
band.' 

"  1  replied: 

"  '  She  is  doomed.  She  will  never  go  back 
to  Russia.' 

"And  the  man  suddenly  commenced  to 
sob.  then  he  got  up  and  went  out,  reeling 
like  a  drunkard. 

'•  The  same  night  I  told  the  countess  that 
a  stranger  had  come  to  inquire  from  me 
about  her  health.-  She  seemed  moved,  and 
told  me  all  the  story  which  I  have  just  told 
you.      She  added  : 

"  '  That  man,  whom  I  do  not  know  at  all, 
now  follows  me  like  my  shadow,  I  meet 
him  every  time  I  go  out;  he  looks  at  me 
after  a  strange  fashion,  but  he  has  never 
spoken.' 

"She  reilected.  then  added: 

"  '  See,  I  would  wager  he  is  under  my  win- 
dows.' 

"  She  left  her  easy-chair,  went  to  pull  back 


ON    THE   JOURNEY.  147 

the  curtains,  and,  sure  enough,  she  showed 
me  the  man  who  had  come  to  see  me,  now 
seated  there  on  a  bench  upon  the  prom- 
enade, his  eyes  lifted  towards  the  hotel. 
He  perceived  us,  rose,  and  went  off  with- 
out once  turning  his  head. 

"And  from  that  time  forward  I  assisted 
at  a  surprising  and  sorrowful  thing — at  the 
silent  love  of  these  two  beings,  who  did 
not  even  know  one  another. 

"  He  loved  her  with  the  affection  of  an 
animal  who  has  been  saved,  and  who  is 
grateful  and  devoted  unto  death.  He  came 
each  day  to  say  to  me  :  '  How  is  she  ?'  un- 
derstanding that  I  had  divined  the  secret. 
And  he  cried  when  he  had  seen  her  pass 
each  day  feebler  and  paler. 

"  She  said  to  me  : 

"  '  I  have  spoken  but  a  single  time  to  that 
strange  man,  and  it  seems  to  me  as  if  I  had 
known  him  for  twenty  years.' 

"And  when  they  met,  she  would  return 
his  bow  with  a  grave  and  charming  smile.  I 
could  see  that  she  was  happy  —  she,  the 
abandoned,  the  doomed  —  I  could  see  that 
she  was  happy  to  be  loved  like  this,  with  such 


148  THE    ODD    NUMBER. 

respect  and  such  constancy,  with  such  exag- 
gerated poetry,  with  this  devotion  which  was 
ready  for  all  things.  And  notwithstanding, 
faithful  to  her  mystical  resolve,  she  wildly 
refused  to  receive  him,  to  know  his  name, 
to  speak  with  him.  She  said :  '  No,  no, 
that  would  spoil  for  me  this  curious  friend- 
ship. We  must  remain  strangers  one  to  the 
other.' 

"As  for  him,  he  also  was  certainly  a  kind 
of  Don  Quixote,  because  he  made  no  at- 
tempt to  approach  her.  He  meant  to  keep 
to  the  end  the  absurd  promise  of  never 
speaking,  which  he  had  made  her  in  the 
railway  carriage. 

"  Often,  during  her  weary  hours  of  weak- 
ness, she  rose  from  her  long  chair,  and  went 
to  open  the  curtains  a  little  way  to  see  if  he 
was  there,  beneath  her  window.  And  when 
she  had  seen  him,  always  motionless  upon 
his  bench,  she  went  back  and  lay  down  with 
a  smile  upon  her  lips. 

"  She  died  one  day  about  ten  o'clock. 
As  I  was  leaving  the  hotel  he  came  up  to 
me  with  a  distracted  face ;  he  had  already 
heard  the  news. 


ON    THE   JOURNEY.  1 49 

" '  I  should  like  to  see  her,  for  one  sec- 
ond, in  your  presence,'  said  he. 

"  I  took  him  by  the  arm  and  went  back 
into  the  house. 

"When  he  was  before  the  couch  of  the 
dead  he  seized  her  hand  and  kissed  it  with 
an  endless  kiss,  then  escaped  like  a  mad- 
man." 


The  doctor  again  was  silent ;  then  con- 
tinued : 

"  This  is  certainly  the  strangest  railway 
adventure  that  I  know.  It  must  also  be 
said  that  men  take  sometimes  the  wildest 
freaks." 

A  woman  murmured,  half  aloud  : 

"Those  two  people  were  not  so  crazy  as 
you  think.     They  were — they  were — " 

But  she  could  not  speak  further,  she  was 
crying  so.  As  we  changed  the  conversation 
to  calm  her,  we  never  knew  what  she  had 
wished  to  say. 


X. 

THE    BEGGAR, 


THE    BEGGAR. 


He  had  known  better  days,  despite  his 
wretchedness  and  his  infirmity. 

At  the  age  of  fifteen  he  had  had  both 
legs  crushed  by  a  carriage  on  the  high-road 
of  Yarville.  Since  then  he  begged,  drag- 
ging himself  along  the  roads,  across  the 
farm-yards,  balanced  on  his  crutches,  which 
had  made  his  shoulders  mount  as  high  as 
his  ears,  so  that  his  head  seemed  sunk  be- 
tween two  mountains. 

A  child  found  in  a  ditch  by  the  cure  of 
Les  Billettes,  on  All  Souls'  Eve,  and  bap- 
tized, for  that  reason,  Nicolas  Toussaint,  he 
had  been  brought  up  on  charity,  and  had 
remained  a  stranger  to  all  instruction.  It 
was  after  the  village  baker  had  given  him 


154  THE    ODD    NUMBER. 

several  glasses  of  brandy  to  drink  that  he 
had  lamed  his  legs.  And  since  then,  a 
laughing-stock  and  a  vagabond,  he  knew  of 
nothing  else  to  do  but  to  hold  out  his  hand 
and  beg. 

Formerly  the  Baroness  d'Avary  had  al- 
lowed him  to  sleep  in  a  kind  of  niche  full 
of  straw  beside  the  hen-house  at  the  farm, 
which  was  under  the  castle  walls;  and  on 
bad  days  he  was  sure  of  finding  a  piece  of 
bread  and  a  glass  of  cider  in  her  kitchen. 
He  also  often  got  a  few  sous  thrown  him 
by  the  old  lady  from  the  top  of  her  steps 
or  from  the  windows  of  her  chamber.  Now 
she  was  dead. 

In  the  villages  they  hardly  gave  him  any- 
thing :  they  knew  him  too  well ;  this  forty 
years  they  were  tired  of  seeing  him  carrying 
about  his  ragged  and  deformed  body  from 
hut  to  hut  on  his  two  wooden  joints.  And 
yet  he  did  not  want  to  go  away,  because  he 
knew  of  nothing  else  on  earth  but  this  cor- 
ner of  a  country,  these  three  or  four  ham- 
lets in  which  he  had  dragged  about  his 
miserable  life.  He  had  set  a  boundary  to 
his  beggarhood,  and  he  would  never  have 


THE    BEGGAR.  I  55 

thought  of  passing  the  limits  which  he  was 
not  accustomed  to  cross. 

He  did  not  know  whether  the  world  ex- 
tended very  much  farther  beyond  the  trees 
which  had  always  bounded  his  sight.  He 
never  asked  himself  that.  And  when  the 
peasants,  tired  of  always  meeting  him  on 
the  borders  of  their  fields  or  along  their 
ditches,  cried  at  him,  "Why  don't  you  go 
to  the  other  villages  instead  of  forever  limp- 
ing round  here  ?"  he  made  no  reply,  and 
went  off  seized  with  a  vague  fear  of  the  un- 
known, with  the  fear  of  a  poor  wretch  who 
was  confusedly  afraid  of  a  thousand  things 
— of  strange  faces,  of  insults,  of  the  suspi- 
cious looks  of  people  who  did  not  know  him, 
and  of  the  gendarmes,  who  went  two  by 
two  along  the  roads,  making  him  dive  by  in- 
stinct into  the  thickets  or  behind  the  piles 
of  pounded  stones. 

When  he  saw  their  uniforms  at  a  dis- 
tance, glittering  in  the  sun,  he  suddenly  dis- 
covered marvellous  agility,  the  agility  of  a 
monster  who  tries  to  gain  some  hiding- 
place.  He  dropped  from  his  crutches,  let 
himself  fall  as  a  rag  falls,  rolled  himself  into 


156  THE    ODD    NUMBER. 

a  ball,  and  became  quite  small,  invisible, 
as  close  to  the  ground  as  a  hare  in  her 
form,  confounding  his  brown  tatters  with 
the  earth. 

He  had,  however,  never  had  any  trouble 
with  the  gendarmes.  And  yet  he  carried 
this  in  his  blood,  as  though  he  had  inherited 
this  terror  and  this  trick  from  his  parents, 
whom  he  had  never  known. 

He  had  no  place  of  refuge,  no  roof  of  his 
own,  no  covering,  no  shelter.  He  slept  any- 
where in  summer,  and  in  winter  he  slipped 
under  the  barns  or  into  the  stables  with 
remarkable  address.  He  always  stole  out 
early  in  the  morning  before  he  should  be 
perceived.  He  knew  all  the  holes  by  which 
buildings  could  be  entered.  And  the  use 
of  his  crutches  having  given  his  arms  ex- 
traordinary strength,  he  sometimes  climbed 
by  sheer  force  of  his  wrists  up  into  the  hay- 
lofts, where  he  would  remain  four  or  five 
days  without  moving,  provided  in  going  his 
round  he  had  secured  food  enough  to  keep 
him  alive. 

In  the  midst  of  men,  he  lived  like  the 
beasts  of  the  wood,  knowing  no  one,  loving 


THE    BEGGAR.  I  5  7 

no  one,  exciting  only  among  the  peasants  a 
sort  of  indifferent  disdain  and  resigned  hos- 
tility. They  nicknamed  him  "The  Bell," 
because  indeed  he  did  swing  between  his 
two  stakes  of  wood  like  a  bell  between  its 
supports. 

For  two  days  he  had  eaten  nothing. 
They  no  longer  gave  him  anything  at  all. 
They  meant  to  be  rid  of  him  at  last.  The 
peasant  wives,  on  their  door-steps,  cried  afar 
off,  on  seeing  him  coming: 

"  Will  you  begone,  you  rascal !  I  gave 
you  a  piece  of  bread  only  three  days 
ago!" 

And  he  pivoted  upon  his  props,  and  took 
himself  off  to  the  next  house,  where  they  re- 
ceived him  after  the  same  fashion. 

From  one  door  to  the  other  the  women 
declared : 

"All  very  well,  but  we  can't  feed  this 
sluggard  all  the  year  round." 

And  yet  every  day  the  sluggard  had  need 
to  eat. 

He  had  gone  the  round  in  Saint  Hilaire, 
Yarville,  and  Les  Billettes  without  getting  a 
centime  or  an  old  crust.     His  last  hope  was 


158  THE   ODD    NUMBER. 

at  Tournolles ;  but  he  must  go  two  leagues 
on  the  high-road,  and  he  felt  himself  too 
exhausted  to  drag  himself  farther,  having  a 
stomach  as  empty  as  his  pocket. 

Nevertheless,  he  set  himself  to  walking. 

It  was  in  December.  A  cold  wind  ran 
on  the  fields  and  whistled  through  the  bare 
branches.  And  the  clouds  galloped  across 
the  low  and  sombre  sky,  hastening  one 
knows  not  whither.  The  cripple  went  slow- 
ly, lifting  his  supports  from  their  place  one 
after  the  other  with  a  painful  effort,  wedging 
himself  up  on  his  one  remaining  twisted  leg, 
which  was  terminated  by  a  club-foot  shod 
with  a  clout. 

From  time  to  time  he  sat  down  on  the 
edge  of  the  ditch  and  rested  several  min- 
utes. Hunger  threw  a  confused  and  heavy 
distress  into  his  soul.  He  had  only  one 
thought:  "to  eat,"  but  how  he  did  not 
know. 

For  three  hours  he  toiled  over  the  long 
road ;  then,  when  he  perceived  the  trees  of 
the  village,  he  hastened  his  steps. 

The  first  peasant  whom  he  met,  and  of 
whom  he  asked  alms,  replied  to  him  : 


THE    BEGGAR.  159 

"  So  here  you  are  again,  you  old  rogue ! 
Sha'n't  we  ever  be  rid  of  you  ?" 

And  "The  Bell"  went  on.  From  door  to 
door  they  used  him  roughly,  they  sent  him 
away  without  giving  him  anything.  He  con- 
tinued his  round,  notwithstanding,  patient 
and  obstinate.     He  did  not  receive  a  sou. 

Then  he  visited  the  farm-houses,  reeling 
over  the  ground  soft  with  rain,  so  weak 
that  he  could  hardly  lift  his  sticks.  Every- 
where they  hunted  him  off.  It  was  one  of 
those  cold,  sad  days  when  hearts  are  shut, 
when  minds  grow  angry,  when  the  soul  is 
sombre,  when  the  hand  does  not  open  to 
succor  or  to  give. 

When  he  had  made  the  tour  of  all  the 
houses  which  he  knew,  he  went  and  threw 
himself  down  in  the  corner  of  a  dry  ditch 
beside  the  farm-yard  of  Maitre  Chiquet. 
He  "  unhooked  "  himself,  as  people  said,  to 
express  the  manner  in  which  he  let  himself 
fall  from  his  high  crutches,  making  them 
slip  from  under  his  arms.  And  he  remained 
for  a  long  time  motionless,  tortured  by  hun- 
ger, but  too  much  of  an  animal  to  really  pen- 
etrate the  depths  of  his  unfathomable  misery. 


l6o  THE    ODD    NUMBER. 

He  awaited,  he  knew  not  what,  with  that 
vague  sense  of  expectation  which  ever  per- 
sists within  us.  He  waited  in  the  corner  of 
that  farm-yard  under  the  icy  wind,  for  the 
mysterious  help  which  we  always  hope  from 
the  sky  or  from  men,  without  asking  our- 
selves how  or  why,  or  through  whom  it  is  to 
come.  A  flock  of  black  chickens  passed 
by,  searching  their  subsistence  in  the  earth, 
the  nourisher  of  all.  At  every  instant,  with 
one  stroke  of  the  beak,  they  picked  up  a 
grain  or  an  invisible  insect,  then  continued 
their  slow  and  steady  search. 

"  The  Bell  "  regarded  them  without  think- 
ing of  anything  at  all ;  then,  rather  in  his 
stomach  than  in  his  brain,  there  came  to 
him  a  feeling  rather  than  an  idea  that  one 
of  these  creatures  broiled  over  a  fire  of  dead 
wood  would  be  good  to  eat. 

The  suspicion  that  he  was  about  to  com- 
mit a  theft  did  not  occur  to  him.  He  took 
a  stone  which  lay  within  reach  of  his  hand, 
and  being  adroit,  he  threw  it  and  fairly  kill- 
ed the  chicken  which  was  nearest  by.  The 
creature  fell  upon  its  side,  moving  its  wings. 
The  others  fled  away,  balanced  upon  their 


THE    BEGGAR.  l6l 

slender  feet.  And  "The  Bell,"  climbing 
his  crutches  once  more,  set  off  to  pick  up 
his  game  with  movements  like  those  of  the 
chickens. 

Just  as  he  arrived  beside  the  little  black 
body  stained  with  blood  about  its  head,  he 
received  a  terrible  blow  in  the  back  which 
made  him  drop  his  sticks  and  sent  him 
rolling  ten  paces  before  them.  And  Maitre 
Chiquet,  in  a  rage,  precipitating  himself  upon 
the  marauder,  thrashed  him  soundly,  pound- 
ing with  fist  and  knee  all  over  the  body  of 
the  defenceless  cripple,  like  a  madman,  or 
like  a  peasant  who  has  been  robbed. 

The  farm  servants  arrived  in  their  turn, 
and,  with  their  master,  fell  to  beating  the 
beggar.  Then,  when  they  were  tired,  they 
picked  him  up  and  carried  him  off,  and  shut 
him  up  in  the  wood-house  while  they  went  to 
fetch  the  gendarmes. 

"The  Bell,"  half-dead,  bleeding,  and  torn 
with  hunger,  remained  lying  on  the  ground. 
Evening  came,  then  night,  then  daybreak. 
All  this  time  he  had  eaten  nothing. 

Towards  mid-day  the  gendarmes  appeared 
and  opened  the  door  with  great  precaution, 
1 1 


162  THE    ODD    NUMBER. 

expecting  a  resistance,  since  Maitre  Chiquet 
made  out  that  he  had  been  attacked  by  the 
beggar,  and  had  only  defended  himself  with 
the  greatest  difficulty. 

The  corporal  cried : 

"  Come,  get  up  !" 

But  "  The  Bell  "  could  no  longer  move ; 
he  tried,  indeed,  to  hoist  himself  upon  his 
sticks,  but  he  did  not  succeed.  They  thought 
it  was  a  feint,  a  trick,  or  the  ugly  temper 
of  a  malefactor,  and  the  two  armed  men, 
seizing  him  roughly,  planted  him  by  force 
upon  his  crutches. 

Fear  had  taken  hold  of  him,  the  fear  which 
the  game  has  before  the  hunter,  which  the 
mouse  has  in  presence  of  the  cat.  By  super- 
human efforts  he  managed  to  remain  upright. 

"  Forward  !"  said  the  corporal.  He  walk- 
ed. All  the  people  of  the  farm  were  there 
to  see  him  off.  The  women  shook  their 
fists ;  the  men  jeered  and  insulted  him  :  he 
was  caught  at  last !  a  good  riddance. 

He  departed  between  his  two  guardians. 
He  found  enough  energy  of  desperation  to 
drag  himself  along  till  evening.  He  was 
brutalized,  not  even  knowing  what  was  hap- 


THE    BEGGAR.  1 63 

pening  to  him,  too  much  frightened  to  un- 
derstand. 

The  people  whom  they  met  stopped  to 
see  him  go  by,  and  the  peasants  murmured : 

"  It  is  some  robber !" 

They  arrived,  towards  night,  at  the  cap- 
ital of  the  district.  He  had  never  come  as 
far  as  that.  He  did  not  even  figure  to  him- 
self what  was  going  on,  nor  what  might  be 
about  to  happen.  All  these  terrible  and 
unexpected  things,  these  shapes  of  unknown 
people,  and  these  strange  houses,  struck  him 
with  consternation. 

He  did  not  utter  a  word,  having  nothing 
to  say,  for  he  no  longer  understood  any- 
thing. Moreover,  since  for  so  many  years 
he  had  conversed  with  no  one,  he  had  al- 
most lost  the  use  of  his  tongue  ;  and  his 
thoughts  also  were  too  confused  to  formu- 
late themselves  in  speech. 

They  shut  him  up  in  the  town  jail.  The 
gendarmes  did  not  think  of  his  needing 
food,  and  they  left  him  till  the  next  day. 

But  when  they  came  to  examine  him,  ear- 
ly in  the  morning,  they  found  him  dead, 
upon  the  ground.     What  a  surprise  ! 


XL 
A    GHOST. 


A    GHOST. 


We  were  talking  of  Processes  of  Seques- 
tration, apropos  of  a  recent  law-case.  It 
was  towards  the  end  of  a  friendly  evening, 
in  an  ancient  mansion  in  the  Rue  de  Gre- 
nelle,  and  each  one  had  his  story,  his  story 
which  he  affirmed  to  be  true. 

Then  the  old  Marquis  de  la  Tour-Samuel, 
who  was  eighty-two  years  old,  rose,  and  went 
and  leaned  upon  the  mantle-piece.  He  said, 
with  a  voice  which  shook  a  little : 

"  I  too,  I  know  a  strange  story,  so  strange 
that  it  has  simply  possessed  my  life.  It  is 
fifty-six  years  since  that  adventure  happen- 
ed, yet  not  a  month  passes  without  my  see- 
ing it  all  again  in  dreams.  That  day  has 
left   a   mark,  an   imprint  of  fear,  stamped 


l68  THE    ODD    NUMBER. 

on  me,  do  you  understand  ?  Yes,  for  ten 
minutes  I  suffered  such  horrible  terror  that 
from  that  hour  to  this  a  sort  of  constant 
dread  has  rested  on  my  soul.  Unexpected 
noises  make  me  tremble  all  over;  objects 
which  in  the  shades  of  evening  I  do  not 
well  distinguish  cause  me  a  mad  desire  to 
escape.  The  fact  is,  I  am  afraid  of  the 
night. 

"  No  !  I  admit  I  should  never  have  con- 
fessed this  before  arriving  at  my  present 
age.  But  I  can  say  what  I  like  now.  When 
a  man  is  eighty-two  years  old  it  is  permitted 
him  to  be  afraid  of  imaginary  dangers.  And 
in  the  face  of  real  ones  I  have  never  drawn 
back,  mesdames. 

"  The  affair  so  disturbed  my  spirit,  and 
produced  in  me  so  profound,  so  mysterious, 
so  dreadful  a  sense  of  trouble,  that  I  have 
never  even  told  it.  I  have  kept  it  in  the 
intimate  recesses  of  my  heart,  in  that  corner 
where  we  hide  our  bitter  and  our  shameful 
secrets,  and  all  those  unspeakable  stories  of 
weaknesses  which  we  have  committed  but 
which  we  cannot  confess. 

"  I  shall  tell  you   the  tale   exactly  as  it 


A   GHOST.  169 

happened,  without  trying  to  explain  it.  Cer- 
tainly it  can  be  explained  —  unless  we  as- 
sume that  for  an  hour  I  was  mad.  But  no, 
I  was  not  mad,  and  I  will  give  you  the  proof 
of  it.  Imagine  what  you  like.  Here  are  the 
plain  facts : 

"  It  was  in  the  month  of  July,  1827.  I 
found  myself  in  garrison  at  Rouen. 

"One  day,  as  I  was  taking  a  walk  upon 
the  quay,  I  met  a  man  whom  I  thought  I 
recognized,  although  I  did  not  remember 
exactly  who  he  might  be.  I  instinctively 
made  a  motion  to  stop.  The  stranger  no- 
ticed the  gesture,  looked  at  me,  and  fell 
into  my  arms. 

"  It  was  a  friend  of  my  youth  whom  I  had 
once  loved  dearly.  The  five  years  since  I 
had  seen  him  seemed  to  have  aged  him  fif- 
ty. His  hair  was  quite  white ;  and  when  he 
walked  he  stooped  as  if  exhausted.  He  un- 
derstood my  surprise,  and  told  me  about  his 
life.  He  had  been  broken  by  a  terrible  sor- 
row. 

"  He  had  fallen  madly  in  love  with  a  very 
young  girl,  and  he  had  married  her  with  a 
kind  of  joyful  ecstasy.     But  after  one  sin- 


170  THE   ODD    NUMBER. 

gle  year  of  superhuman  happiness,  she  had 
suddenly  died  of  a  trouble  at  the  heart, 
slain,  no  doubt,  by  love  itself. 

"  He  had  left  his  chateau  the  very  day 
of  the  funeral,  and  had  come  to  reside  in 
his  hotel  at  Rouen.  He  was  now  living 
there,  solitary  and  desperate,  preyed  on  by 
anguish,  and  so  miserable  that  his  only 
thought  was  suicide. 

"'Now  that  I've  found  you  again,' said 
he,  '  I  shall  ask  you  to  do  me  a  great  serv- 
ice. It  is  to  go  out  to  the  chateau  and 
bring  me  some  papers  of  which  I  stand  in 
urgent  need.  They  are  in  the  secretary  in 
my  room,  in  our  room.  I  cannot  intrust 
this  commission  to  an  inferior,  or  to  a  man 
of  business,  because  I  desire  impenetrable 
discretion  and  absolute  silence.  And  as  to 
myself,  I  would  not  go  back  to  that  house 
for  anything  in  the  world. 

" '  I  will  give  you  the  key  of  that  cham- 
ber, which  I  closed  myself  when  I  went 
away.  And  I  will  give  you  the  key  of  the 
secretary.  Besides  that,  you  shall  have  a 
line  from  me  to  my  gardener,  which  will 
make  you  free  of  the  chateau.     But  come 


A   GHOST.  171 

and  breakfast  with  me  to-morrow,  and  we 
can  talk  about  all  that.' 

"I  promised  to  do  him  this  service.  It 
was  indeed  a  mere  excursion  for  me,  since 
his  estate  lay  only  about  five  leagues  from 
Rouen,  and  I  could  get  there  on  horseback 
in  an  hour. 

"  I  was  with  him  at  ten  o'clock  the  next 
morning.  We  breakfasted  alone  together ; 
yet  he  did  not  say  twenty  words.  He  begged 
me  to  forgive  him  for  his  silence.  The 
thought  of  the  visit  which  I  was  about  to 
make  to  that  chamber  where  his  happiness 
lay  dead,  overwhelmed  him  completely,  said 
he  to  me.  And  for  a  fact,  he  did  seem 
strangely  agitated  and  preoccupied,  as  if  a 
mysterious  struggle  were  passing  in  his 
soul. 

"  Finally,  however,  he  explained  to  me 
exactly  what  I  must  do.  It  was  quite  sim- 
ple. I  must  secure  two  packages  of  letters 
and  a  bundle  of  papers  which  were  shut  up 
in  the  first  drawer  on  the  right  of  the  desk 
of  which  I  had  the  key.     He  added  : 

" '  I  don't  need  to  ask  you  not  to  look  at 
them.' 


172  THE   ODD    NUMBER. 

"  I  was  almost  wounded  by  this,  and  I 
told  him  so  a  little  hotly.     He  stammered : 

" '  Forgive  me,  I  suffer  so  much.' 

"  And  he  fell  to  weeping. 

"  I  left  him  about  one  o'clock,  to  accom- 
plish my  mission. 

"  It  was  brilliant  weather,  and  I  trotted 
fast  across  the  fields,  listening  to  the  songs 
of  the  larks  and  the  regular  ring  of  my 
sabre  on  my  boot. 

"  Next  I  entered  the  forest  and  walked 
my  horse.  Branches  of  trees  caressed  my 
face ;  and  sometimes  I  would  catch  a  leaf  in 
my  teeth,  and  chew  it  eagerly,  in  one  of  those 
ecstasies  at  being  alive  which  fill  you,  one 
knows  not  why,  with  a  tumultuous  and  al- 
most elusive  happiness,  with  a  kind  of  in- 
toxication of  strength. 

"On  approaching  the  chateau,  I  looked 
in  my  pocket  for  the  note  which  I  had  for 
the  gardener,  and  I  found  to  my  astonish- 
ment that  it  was  sealed.  I  was  so  surprised 
and  irritated  that  I  came  near  returning  at 
once,  without  acquitting  myself  of  my  er- 
rand. But  I  reflected  that  I  should  in  that 
case  display  a  susceptibility  which  would 


A    GHOST.  173 

be  in  bad  taste.  And,  moreover,  in  his  trou- 
ble, my  friend  might  have  sealed  the  note 
unconsciously. 

"  The  manor  looked  as  though  it  had 
been  deserted  these  twenty  years.  How  the 
gate,  which  was  open  and  rotten,  held  up, 
was  hard  to  tell.  Grass  covered  the  walks. 
You  no  longer  made  out  the  borders  of  the 
lawn. 

"  At  the  noise  which  I  made  by  kicking  a 
shutter  with  my  foot,  an  old  man  came  out 
of  a  side  door  and  seemed  stupefied  at  the 
sight.  I  leaped  to  the  ground  and  delivered 
my  letter.  He  read  it,  read  it  again,  turn- 
ed it  round,  looked  at  me  askance,  put  the 
paper  in  his  pocket,  and  remarked : 

"  '  Well !     What  do  you  want  ?' 

"  I  answered,  sharply  : 

"  '  You  ought  to  know,  since  you  have  re- 
ceived the  orders  of  your  master  in  that 
letter.     I  want  to  enter  the  chateau.' 

"  He  seemed  overwhelmed.     He  said  : 

" '  So,  you  are  going  into . . .  into  his  room  ?' 

"I  began  to  grow  impatient. 

"  '  Parbleu  !  But  do  you  mean  to  put  me 
through  an  examination,  my  good  man  ?' 


174  THE   ODD    NUMBER. 

"  He  stammered : 

" '  No  .  .  .  monsieur  .  .  .  only  ...  it  has 
not  been  opened  since  .  .  .  since  the  .  .  . 
death.  If  you  will  wait  five  minutes,  I  will 
go  ...  go  and  see  whether  .  .  .' 

"  I  interrupted  him,  angrily  : 

" '  Come,  come  !  Are  you  playing  with 
me  ?  You  know  you  can't  get  in.  I  have 
the  key.' 

"  He  had  nothing  more  to  say. 

"  '  Well,  monsieur,  I  will  show  you  the 
way.1 

" '  Show  me  the  staircase,  and  leave  me 
alone.  I  shall  find  the  room  well  enough 
without  you.' 

"  '  But .  .  .  monsieur  .  .  .  but .  .  . ' 

"  This  time  I  went  fairly  into  a  rage : 

"  '  Be  quiet !  do  you  hear  ?  Or  you  will 
have  to  reckon  with  me.' 

"  I  pushed  him  violently  aside,  and  I  pen- 
etrated into  the  house. 

"  First  I  crossed  the  kitchen,  then  two  lit- 
tle rooms  inhabited  by  the  fellow  and  his 
wife.  I  next  passed  into  a  great  hall,  I 
climbed  the  stairs,  and  I  recognized  the 
door  as  indicated  by  my  friend. 


A   GHOST.  175 

"  I  opened  it  without  trouble,  and  en- 
tered. 

"  The  room  was  so  dark  that  at  first  I 
hardly  made  out  anything.  I  paused,  struck 
by  that  mouldy  and  lifeless  odor  so  peculiar 
to  apartments  which  are  uninhabited  and 
condemned,  and,  as  you  might  say,  dead. 
Then,  little  by  little,  my  eyes  became  ac- 
customed to  the  gloom,  and  I  saw,  clearly 
enough,  a  great  apartment  all  in  disorder; 
the  bed  without  sheets,  yet  with  its  mattress 
and  its  pillows,  one  of  which  bore  the  deep 
impress  of  an  elbow  or  a  head,  as  if  some 
one  had  just  lain  on  it. 

"  The  chairs  seemed  all  in  confusion.  I 
noticed  that  a  door  (into  a  closet,  no  doubt) 
had  remained  half  open. 

"  I  went  first  to  the  window  to  let  in 
some  light,  and  I  opened  it ;  but  the  iron 
fastenings  of  the  outside  shutter  were  so 
rusty  that  I  could  not  make  them  yield. 

"  I  even  tried  to  break  them  with  my  sa- 
bre, but  without  success.  And  as  I  was 
growing  angry  at  these  useless  efforts,  and 
as  my  eyes  had  at  last  perfectly  accustomed 
themselves  to  the  darkness,  I  gave  up  the 


176  THE   ODD    NUMBER. 

hope  of  seeing  more  clearly,  and  I  went  to 
the  desk. 

"  I  seated  myself  in  an  arm  -  chair,  low- 
ered the  shelf,  and  opened  the  indicated 
drawer.  It  was  full  to  the  top.  I  needed 
only  three  packets,  which  I  knew  how  to 
tell.     And  I  set  myself  to  looking. 

"  I  was  straining  my  eyes  to  decipher  the 
inscriptions,  when  behind  me  I  thought  I 
heard  a  slight  rustle.  I  paid  no  heed  to 
it,  thinking  that  a  current  of  air  had  made 
some  of  the  hangings  stir.  But,  in  a  min- 
ute, another  almost  imperceptible  movement 
caused  a  singular,  unpleasant  little  shiver  to 
pass  over  my  skin.  It  was  so  stupid  to  be 
even  in  the  least  degree  nervous  that  I 
would  not  turn  round,  being  ashamed  for 
myself  in  my  own  presence.  I  had  then 
just  discovered  the  second  of  the  bundles 
which  I  wanted.  And  now,  just  as  I  lit  upon 
the  third,  the  breath  of  a  great  and  painful 
sigh  against  my  shoulder  caused  me  to  give 
one  mad  leap  two  yards  away.  In  my  start 
I  had  turned  quite  round,  with  my  hand  upon 
my  sabre,  and  if  I  had  not  felt  it  by  my  side 
I  should  certainly  have  run  like  a  coward. 


A   GHOST.  177 

"A  tall  woman  dressed  in  white  stood 
looking  at  me  from  behind  the  arm-chair  in 
which,  a  second  before,  I  had  been  sitting. 

"  Such  a  shudder  ran  through  my  limbs 
that  I  almost  fell  backward!  Oh,  no  one 
who  has  not  felt  it  can  understand  a  dread- 
ful yet  foolish  fear  like  that.  The  soul  fair- 
ly melts  away ;  you  are  conscious  of  a  heart 
no  longer ;  the  whole  body  becomes  as  lax 
as  a  sponge ;  and  you  would  say  that  every- 
thing within  you  was  falling  to  pieces. 

"  I  do  not  believe  in  ghosts  at  all. — Well, 
I  tell  you  that  at  that  moment  I  grew  faint 
under  the  hideous  fear  of  the  dead.  And 
from  the  irresistible  anguish  caused  by  su- 
pernatural terrors  I  suffered,  oh,  I  suffered 
in  a  few  seconds  more  than  I  have  done  all 
the  rest  of  my  life. 

"  If  she  had  not  spoken  I  should  perhaps 
have  died!  But  she  did  speak;  she  spoke 
in  a  sweet  and  dolorous  voice  which  made 
my  nerves  quiver.  I  should  not  venture  to 
say  that  I  became  master  of  myself  and  that 
I  recovered  my  reason.  No.  I  was  so  fright- 
ened that  I  no  longer  knew  what  I  was  do- 
ing ;  but  a  kind  of  personal  dignity  which 
12 


178  THE   ODD    NUMBER. 

I  have  in  me,  and  also  a  little  professional 
pride,  enabled  me  to  keep  up  an  honorable 
countenance  almost  in  spite  of  myself.  I 
posed  for  my  own  benefit,  and  for  hers,  no 
doubt — for  hers,  woman  or  spectre,  whatever 
she  might  be.  I  analyzed  all  this  later,  be- 
cause, I  assure  you,  that  at  the  instant  of  the 
apparition  I  did  not  do  much  thinking.  I 
was  afraid. 

"  She  said: 

" '  Oh,  monsieur,  you  can  do  me  a  great 
service !' 

"  I  tried  to  answer,  but  it  was  simply  im- 
possible for  me  to  utter  a  word.  A  vague 
sound  issued  from  my  throat. 

"She  continued : 

" '  Will  you  do  it  ?  You  can  save  me, 
cure  me.  I  suffer  dreadfully.  I  suffer,  oh, 
I  suffer !' 

"And  she  sat  down  gently  in  my  arm- 
chair.    She  looked  at  me  : 

"  '  Will  you  do  it  ?' 

"  I  made  the  sign  '  yes '  with  my  head, 
for  my  voice  was  gone. 

"  Then  she  held  out  to  me  a  tortoise-shell 
comb  and  she  murmured  : 


A   GHOST.  179 

" '  Comb  my  hair ;  oh,  comb  my  hair  !  That 
will  cure  me.  They  must  comb  my  hair. 
Look  at  my  head.  How  I  suffer  !  And  my 
hair,  how  it  hurts  me  !' 

"  Her  hair,  which  was  loose  and  long  and 
very  black  (as  it  seemed  to  me),  hung  down 
over  the  arm-chair's  back  and  touched  the 
ground. 

"  Why  did  I  do  that  ?  Why,  all  shivering, 
did  I  receive  the  comb?  And  why  did  I 
take  into  my  hands  that  long  hair,  which 
gave  my  skin  a  feeling  of  atrocious  cold, 
as  if  I  were  touching  serpents?  I  do  not 
know. 

"That  feeling  still  clings  about  my  fin- 
gers.    And  when  I  think  of  it  I  tremble. 

"I  combed  her.  I  handled,  I  know  not 
how,  that  icy  hair.  I  twisted  it.  I  bound 
it  and  unbound  it.  I  plaited  it  as  we  plait 
a  horse's  mane.  She  sighed,  bent  her  head, 
seemed  happy. 

"  Suddenly  she  said  to  me, '  I  thank  you  !' 
caught  the  comb  out  of  my  hands,  and  fled 
through  the  half-open  door  which  I  had  no- 
ticed. 

"For    several   seconds   after   I  was   left 


l8o  THE   ODD    NUMBER. 

alone,  I  experienced  that  wild  trouble  of  the 
soul  which  one  feels  after  a  nightmare  from 
which  one  has  just  awakened.  Then  at  last 
I  recovered  my  senses  ;  I  ran  to  the  window, 
and  I  broke  the  shutters  open  with  violent 
blows. 

"A  flood  of  daylight  entered.  I  rushed 
upon  the  door  by  which  she  had  disap- 
peared.    I  found  it  shut  and  immovable. 

"  Then  a  fever  of  flight  seized  on  me,  a 
panic,  a  real  panic  such  as  overcomes  an 
army.  I  caught  up  roughly  the  three  pack- 
ets of  letters  from  the  open  desk ;  I  crossed 
the  room  at  a  run  ;  I  took  the  steps  of  the 
staircase  four  at  a  time ;  I  found  myself 
outside,  I  don't  know  how ;  and,  perceiving 
my  horse  ten  paces  off,  I  mounted  him  with 
one  leap  and  went  off  at  full  gallop. 

"  I  did  not  pause  till  I  was  before  the 
door  of  my  lodgings  in  Rouen.  Throwing 
the  reins  to  my  orderly,  I  escaped  to  my 
room,  where  I  locked  myself  in  to  think. 

"  And  then  for  an  hour  I  kept  anxiously 
asking  whether  I  had  not  been  the  sport 
of  some  hallucination.  I  had  certainly 
had  one  of  those  incomprehensible  nervous 


A   GHOST.  l8l 

shocks,  one  of  those  affections  of  the  brain 
which  dwarf  the  miracles  to  which  the  su- 
pernatural owes  its  power. 

"  And  I  had  almost  come  to  believe  it  was 
a  delusion,  an  error  of  my  senses,  when  I 
drew  near  the  window,  and  my  eyes  lit  by 
chance  upon  my  breast.  My  dolman  was 
covered  with  long  woman's  hairs  which  had 
rolled  themselves  around  the  buttons  ! 

"  I  took  them  one  by  one  and  I  threw 
them  out  of  the  window,  with  trembling  in 
my  fingers. 

"Then  I  called  my  orderly.  I  felt  too 
much  moved,  too  much  troubled,  to  go  near 
my  friend  that  day.  And  I  wished  also  to 
ponder  carefully  what  I  should  say  to  him 
about  all  this. 

"  I  had  the  letters  taken  to  his  house.  He 
gave  the  soldier  a  receipt.  He  asked  many 
questions  about  me,  and  my  soldier  told  him 
that  I  was  unwell ,  that  I  had  had  a  sun- 
stroke—something.    He  seemed  uneasy. 

"  I  went  to  him  the  next  day,  early  in  the 
morning,  having  resolved  to  tell  him  the 
truth.  He  had  gone  out  the  evening  before, 
and  had  not  come  back. 


182  THE   ODD    NUMBER. 

"  I  returned  in  the  course  of  the  clay.  They 
had  seen  nothing  of  him.  I  waited  a  week. 
He  did  not  reappear.  Then  I  informed  the 
police.  They  searched  for  him  everywhere 
without  discovering  a  trace  of  his  passing 
or  of  his  final  retreat. 

"A  minute  inspection  of  the  abandoned 
chateau  was  instituted.  Nothing  suspicious 
was  discovered. 

"  No  sign  that  a  woman  had  been  hidden 
there  revealed  itself. 

"  The  inquiry  proving  fruitless,  the  search 
was  interrupted. 

"  And  for  fifty  -  six  years  I  have  learned 
nothing.     I  know  nothing  more." 


XII. 
LITTLE    SOLDIER. 


LITTLE    SOLDIER 


Every  Sunday,  as  soon  as  they  were  free, 
the  two  little  soldiers  set  off. 

On  leaving  the  barracks  they  turned  to 
the  right ;  went  through  Courbevoie  with 
long  quick  steps,  as  though  they  were  on  a 
inarch ;  then,  having  left  the  houses  behind 
them,  they  followed  at  a  calmer  gait  the 
bare  and  dusty  high-road  which  leads  to 
Bezons. 

Being  little  and  thin,  they  looked  quite 
lost  in  their  coats,  which  were  too  big  and 
too  long.  The  sleeves  hung  down  over  their 
hands,  and  they  were  much  bothered  by 
their  enormous  red  breeches,  which  compel- 
led them  to  walk  wide.  Under  their  stiff, 
high  shakos  their  faces  seemed  like  mere 


l86  THE   ODD    NUMBER. 

nothings  —  two  poor,  hollow  Breton  faces, 
simple  in  an  almost  animal  simplicity,  and 
with  blue  eyes  which  were  gentle  and  calm. 

During  the  walk  they  never  spoke.  They 
went  straight  on,  each  with  the  same  idea 
in  his  head  as  the  other.  It  stood  them  in 
place  of  conversation ,  for  the  fact  is  that 
just  inside  the  little  wood  near  Les  Cham- 
pioux  they  had  found  a  place  which  re- 
minded them  of  their  own  country,  and  it 
was  only  there  that  they  felt  happy. 

When  they  came  under  the  trees  where 
the  roads  from  Colombes  and  from  Chatou 
cross,  they  would  take  off  their  heavy  sha- 
kos and  wipe  their  foreheads. 

They  always  stopped  a  little  while  on  the 
Bezons  bridge  to  look  at  the  Seine.  They 
would  remain  there  two  or  three  minutes, 
bent  double,  leaning  on  the  parapet.  Or 
sometimes  they  would  gaze  out  over  the 
great  basin  of  Argenteuil,  where  the  skiffs 
might  be  seen  scudding,  with  their  white, 
slanted  sails,  recalling  perhaps  the  look  of 
the  Breton  water,  the  harbor  of  Vannes,  near 
which  they  lived,  and  the  fishing-boats  stand- 
ing out  across  the  Morbihan  to  the  open  sea. 


LITTLE   SOLDIER.  1 87 

As  soon  as  they  had  crossed  the  Seine 
they  bought  their  provisions  from  the  sau- 
sage merchant,  the  baker,  and  the  seller  of 
the  wine  of  the  country.  A  piece  of  blood- 
pudding,  four  sous'  worth  of  bread,  and  a 
litre  of  "petit  bleu"  constituted  the  provi- 
sions, which  they  carried  off  in  their  hand- 
kerchiefs. But  after  they  had  left  this  vil- 
lage they  now  went  very  slowly  forward,  and 
they  began  to  talk. 

In  front  of  them  a  barren  plain  strewn 
with  clumps  of  trees  led  to  the  wood,  to  the 
little  wood  which  had  seemed  to  them  to 
resemble  the  one  at  Kermarivan.  Grain- 
fields  and  hay-fields  bordered  the  narrow 
path,  which  lost  itself  in  this  young  green- 
ness of  the  crops,  and  Jean  Kerderen  would 
always  say  to  Luc  le  Ganidec : 

"  It  looks  like  it  does  near  Plounivon." 

"  Yes ,  exactly." 

They  went  onward,  side  by  side,  their 
spirits  suffused  with  vague  memories  of  their 
own  country,  filled  with  awakened  images — 
images  as  naive  as  the  pictures  on  the  col- 
ored broadsheets  which  you  buy  for  a  pen- 
ny.    And  they  kept  recognizing,  as  it  were, 


l88  THE    ODD    NUMBER. 

now  a  corner  of  a  field,  a  hedge,  a  bit  of 
moorland,  now  a  cross-roads,  now  a  granite 
cross. 

Then,  too,  they  would  always  stop  beside 
a  certain  landmark,  a  great  stone,  because 
it  looked  something  like  the  cromlech  at 
Locneuven. 

On  arriving  at  the  first  clump  of  trees 
Luc  le  Ganidec  every  Sunday  cut  a  switch, 
a  hazel  switch,  and  began  gently  to  peel  off 
the  bark,  thinking  meanwhile  of  the  folk 
there  at  home. 

Jean  Kerderen  carried  the  provisions. 

From  time  to  time  Luc  mentioned  a 
name,  or  recalled  some  doing  of  their  child- 
hood in  a  few  brief  words,  which  caused 
long  thoughts.  And  their  own  country, 
their  dear  distant  country,  repossessed  them 
little  by  little,  seized  upon  them,  and  sent 
to  them  from  afar  her  shapes,  her  sounds, 
her  well-known  prospects,  her  odors — odors 
of  the  green  lands  where  the  salt  sea-air  was 
blowing. 

They  were  no  longer  conscious  of  the  ex- 
halations of  the  Parisian  stables  on  which 
the  earth  of  the  bantieue  fattens,  but  of  the 


LITTLE   SOLDIER.  1 89 

perfume  of  the  flowering  broom,  which  the 
salt  breeze  of  the  open  sea  plucks  and  bears 
away.  And  the  sails  of  the  boats,  appear- 
ing above  the  river-banks,  seemed  to  them 
the  sails  of  the  coasting  vessels  perceived 
beyond  the  great  plain  which  extended  from 
their  homes  to  the  very  margin  of  the  waves. 

They  went  with  short  steps,  Luc  le  Gani- 
dec  and  Jean  Kerderen,  content  and  sad, 
haunted  by  a  sweet  melancholy,  by  the  lin- 
gering, penetrating  sorrow  of  a  caged  animal 
who  remembers. 

And  by  the  time  that  Luc  had  stripped 
the  slender  wand  of  its  bark  they  arrived  at 
the  corner  of  the  wood  where  every  Sunday 
they  took  breakfast. 

They  found  the  two  bricks  which  they 
had  hidden  in  the  thicket,  and  they  kindled 
a  little  fire  -of  branches,  over  which  to  roast 
their  blood-pudding  at  the  end  of  a  bayonet. 

And  when  they  had  breakfasted,  eaten 
their  bread  to  the  last  crumb,  and  drunk 
their  wine  to  the  last  drop,  they  remained 
seated  side  by  side  upon  the  grass,  saying 
nothing,  their  eyes  on  the  distance,  their 
eyelids  drooping,  their  fingers  crossed  as  at 


190  THE   ODD    NUMBER. 

mass,  their  red  legs  stretched  out  beside  the 
poppies  of  the  field.  And  the  leather  of  their 
shakos  and  the  brass  of  their  buttons  glit- 
tered in  the  ardent  sun,  and  made  the  larks, 
which  sang  and  hovered  above  their  heads, 
stop  short. 


About  mid-day  they  began  to  turn  their 
eyes  from  time  to  time  in  the  direction  of 
the  village  of  Bezons,  because  the  girl  with 
the  cow  was  coming. 

She  passed  by  them  every  Sunday  on  her 
way  to  milk  and  change  the  position  of  her 
cow  —  the  only  cow  of  this  district  which 
ever  went  out  of  the  stable  to  grass.  It 
pastured  in  a  narrow  field  along  the  edge  of 
wood -a  little  farther  on. 

They  soon  perceived  the  girl,  the  only 
human  being  who  came  walking  across  the 
land.  And  they  felt  themselves  rejoiced  by 
the  brilliant  reflections  thrown  off  by  her  tin 
milk-pail  under  the  flame  of  the  sun.  They 
never  talked  about  her.  They  were  simply 
glad  to  see  her,  without  understanding  why. 

She  was  a  great  strong  wench  with   red 


LITTLE   SOLDIER.  IQI 

hair,  burned  by  the  heat  of  sunny  days,  a 
great  sturdy  wench  of  the  environs  of  Paris. 

Once,  finding  them  again  seated  in  the 
same  place,  she  said  : 

"Good-morning.  You  two  are  always  here, 
aren't  you?" 

Luc  le  Ganidec,  the  bolder,  stammered : 

"Yes;  we  come  to  rest." 

That  was  all.  But  the  next  Sunday  she 
iaughed  on  seeing  them,  laughed  with  a  pro- 
tecting benevolence  and  a  feminine  keen- 
ness which  knew  well  enough  that  they  were 
bashful.     And  she  asked : 

"  What  are  you  doing  there  ?  Are  you 
trying  to  see  the  grass  grow?" 

Luc  was  cheered  up  by  this,  and  smiled 
likewise  :  "  Maybe  we  are." 

She  continued:  " Hein !  That's  pretty 
slow  work." 

He  answered,  still  laughing  :  "  Well,  yes, 
it  is." 

She  went  on.  But  coming  back  with  a 
milk-pail  full  of  milk,  she  stopped  again  be- 
fore them,  and  said: 

"  Would,  you  like  a  drop  ?  It  will  taste 
like  home." 


I92  THE   ODD   NUMBER. 

With  her  instinctive  feeling  that  they  were 
of  the  same  peasant  race  as  she,  being  her- 
self also  far  away  from  home  perhaps,  she 
had  divined  and  touched  the  spot. 

They  were  both  touched.  Then,  with  some 
difficulty,  she  managed  to  make  a  little  milk 
run  into  the  neck  of  the  glass  bottle  in  which 
they  carried  their  wine.  And  Luc  drank  first, 
with  little  swallows,  stopping  every  minute  to 
see  whether  he  had  drunk  more  than  his  half. 
Then  he  handed  the  bottle  to  Jean. 

She  stood  upright  before  them,  her  hands 
on  her  hips,  her  pail  on  the  ground  at  her 
feet,  glad  at  the  pleasure  which  she  had 
given. 

Then  she  departed,  shouting :  "  Allons  ! 
Adieu  !     Till  next  Sunday  !" 

And  as  long  as  they  could  see  her  at  all, 
they  followed  with  their  eyes  her  tall  silhou- 
ette, which  withdrew  itself,  growing  smaller 
and  smaller,  and  seeming  to  sink  into  the 
verdure  of  the  fields. 


When  they  were  leaving  the  barracks  the 
week  after,  Jean  said  to  Luc : 


LITTLE   SOLDIER.  1 93 

"Oughtn't  we  to  buy  her  something 
good  ?" 

And  they  remained  in  great  embarrass- 
ment before  the  problem  of  the  choice  of  a 
delicacy  for  the  girl  with  the  cow. 

Luc  was  of  the  opinion  that  a  bit  of  tripe 
would  be  the  best,  but  Jean  preferred  some 
berlingots,  because  he  was  fond  of  sweets. 
His  choice  fairly  made  him  enthusiastic,  and 
they  bought  at  a  grocer's  two  sous'  worth  of 
candies  white  and  red. 

They  ate  their  breakfast  more  rapidly 
than  usual,  being  nervous  with  expectation. 

Jean  saw  her  the  first.  "  There  she  is !" 
said  he.  Luc  continued :  "  Yes,  there  she 
is." 

While  yet  some  distance  off  she  laughed 
at  seeing  them.     She  cried : 

"  Is  everything  going  as  you  like  it  ?" 

They  answered  together : 

"  Are  you  getting  on  all  right  ?" 

Then  she  conversed,  talked  to  them  of 
simple  things  in  which  they  felt  an  interest 
— of  the  weather,  of  the  crops,  and  of  her 
master. 

They  were  afraid  to  offer  her  their  can- 

13 


194  THE   ODD    NUMBER. 

dies,  which    were   slowly   melting   away  in 
Jean's  pocket. 

At  last  Luc  grew  bold,  and  murmured : 
"We  have  brought  you  something." 
She  demanded,  "  What  is  it  ?     Tell  me  I" 
Then  Jean,  blushing  up  to  his  ears,  man- 
aged to  get  at  the  little  paper  cornucopia, 
and  held  it  out. 

She  began  to  eat  the  little  pieces  of  sug- 
ar, rolling  them  from  one  cheek  to  the  oth- 
er. And  they  made  lumps  beneath  her 
flesh.  The  two  soldiers,  seated  before  her, 
regarded  her  with  emotion  and  delight. 

Then  she  went  to  milk  her  cow,  and  once 
more  gave  them  some  milk  on  coming  back. 
They  thought  of  her  all  the  week  ;  several 
times  they  even  spoke  of  her.  The  next 
Sunday  she  sat  down  with  them  for  a  little 
longer  talk ;  and  all  three,  seated  side  by 
side,  their  eyes  lost  in  the  distance,  clasp- 
ing their  knees  with  their  hands,  told  the 
small  doings,  the  minute  details  of  their  life 
in  the  villages  where  they  had  been  born, 
while  over  there  the  cow,  seeing  that  the 
milk-maid  had  stopped  on  her  way,  stretch- 
ed out  towards  her  its  heavy  head  with  the 


LITTLE   SOLDIER.  I95 

dripping  nostrils,  and  gave  a  long  low  to  call 
her  back. 

Soon  the  girl  consented  to  eat  a  bit  of 
bread  with  them  and  drink  a  mouthful  of 
wine.  She  often  brought  them  plums  in  her 
pocket ;  for  the  season  of  plums  had  come. 
Her  presence  sharpened  the  wits  of  the  two 
little  Breton  soldiers,  and  they  chattered  like 
two  birds. 


But,  one  Tuesday,  Luc  le  Ganidec  asked 
for  leave — a  thing  which  had  never  happen- 
ed before — and  he  did  not  return  until  ten 
o'clock  at  night. 

Jean  racked  his  brains  uneasily  for  a 
reason  for  his  comrade's  going  out  in  this 
way. 

The  next  Thursday  Luc,  having  borrow- 
ed ten  sous  from  his  bed-fellow,  again  asked 
and  obtained  permission  to  leave  the  bar- 
racks for  several  hours. 

And  when  he  set  off  with  Jean  on  their 
Sunday  walk  his  manner  was  very  queer, 
quite  restless  and  quite  changed.  Kerderen 
did  not  understand,  but  he  vaguely  suspect- 


196  THE    ODD   NUMBER. 

ed  something  without  divining  what  it  could 
-be. 

They  did  not  say  a  word  to  one  another 
until  they  reached  their  usual  stopping-place, 
where,  from  their  constant  sitting  in  the 
same  spot,  the  grass  was  quite  worn  away. 
And  they  ate  their  breakfast  slowly.  Nei- 
ther of  them  felt  hungry. 

Before  long  the  girl  appeared.  As  on 
every  Sunday,  they  watched  her  coming. 
When  she  was  quite  near,  Luc  rose  and 
made  two  steps  forward.  She  put  her  milk- 
pail  on  the  ground,  and  kissed  him.  She 
kissed  him  passionately,  throwing  her  arms 
about  his  neck,  without  noticing  Jean,  with- 
out remembering  that  he  was  there,  without 
even  seeing  him. 

And  he  sat  there  desperate,  he  the  poor 
Jean,  so  desperate  that  he  did  not  under- 
stand, his  soul  quite  overwhelmed,  his  heart 
bursting,  not  yet  expressing  it  all  to  himself. 

Then  the  girl  seated  herself  beside  Luc, 
and  they  began  to  chatter. 

Jean  did  not  look  at  them  :  he  now  divined 
why  his  comrade  had  gone  out  twice  during 
the  week,  and  he  felt  within  him  a  burning 


LITTLE    SOLDIER.  I97 

grief,  a  kind  of  wound,  that  sense  of  rending 
which  is  caused  by  a  treason. 

Luc  and  the  girl  got  up  together  to  go 
and  change  the  position  of  the  cow. 

Jean  followed  them  with  his  eyes.  He 
saw  them  departing  side  by  side.  The  red 
breeches  of  his  comrade  made  a  bright  spot 
on  the  road.  It  was  Luc  who  picked  up  the 
mallet  and  hammered  down  the  stake  to 
which  they  tied  the  beast. 

The  girl  stooped  to  milk  her,  while  he 
stroked  the  cow's  sharp  spine  with  a  careless 
hand.  Then  they  left  the  milk-pail  on  the 
grass,  and  they  went  deep  into  the  wood. 

Jean  saw  nothing  more  but  the  wall  of 
leaves  where  they  had  entered ;  and  he  felt 
himself  so  troubled  that  if  he  had  tried  to 
rise  he  would  certainly  have  fallen. 

He  sat  motionless,  stupefied  by  astonish- 
ment and  suffering,  by  a  suffering  which  was 
simple  but  which  was  deep.  He  wanted  to 
cry,  to  run  away,  to  hide  himself,  never  to 
see  anybody  any  more. 

Suddenly  he  saw  them  issuing  from  the 
thicket.  They  returned  gently,  holding  each 
other's  hands,  as  in  the  villages  do  those  who 


IDS  THE    ODD   NUMBER. 

are  promised.  It  was  Luc  who  carried  the 
pail. 

They  kissed  one  another  again  before  they 
separated,  and  the  girl  went  off  after  having 
thrown  Jean  a  friendly  "good-evening"  and 
a  smile  which  was  full  of  meaning.  To-day 
she  no  longer  thought  of  offering  him  any 
milk. 

The  two  little  soldiers  sat  side  by  side, 
motionless  as  usual,  silent  and  calm,  their 
placid  faces  betraying  nothing  of  all  which 
troubled  their  hearts.  The  sun  fell  on 
them.  Sometimes  the  cow  lowed,  looking 
at  them  from  afar. 

At  their  usual  hour  they  rose  to  go  back. 

Luc  cut  a  switch.  Jean  carried  the  empty 
bottle.  He  returned  it  to  the  wine-seller  at 
Bezons.  Then  they  sallied  out  upon  the 
bridge,  and,  as  they  did  every  Sunday,  they 
stopped  several  minutes  in  the  middle  to 
watch  the  water  flowing. 

Jean  leaned,  leaned  more  and  more,  over 
the  iron  railing,  as  though  he  saw  in  the  cur- 
rent something  which  attracted  him.  Luc 
said:  "Are  you  trying  to  drink?"  Just  as 
he  uttered  the  last  word  Jean's  head  over- 


LITTLE    SOLDIER.  199 

balanced  his  body,  his  legs  described  a  cir- 
cle in  the  air,  and  the  little  blue  and  red 
soldier  fell  in  a  lump,  entered  the  water,  and 
disappeared. 

Luc,  his  throat  paralyzed  with  anguish, 
tried  in  vain  to  shout.  Farther  down  he 
saw  something  stir ;  then  the  head  of  his 
comrade  rose  to  the  surface  of  the  river  and 
re-entered  it  as  soon. 

Farther  still  he  again  perceived  a  hand, 
a  single  hand  which  issued  from  the  stream 
and  then  plunged  back.     That  was  all. 

The  barge-men  who  ran  up  did  not  find 
the  body  that  clay. 

Luc  returned  alone  to  the  barracks,  run- 
ning, his  head  filled  with  madness ;  and  he 
told  of  the  accident,  with  tears  in  his  eyes 
and  voice,  blowing  his  nose  again  and  again  : 
"  He  leaned  over  ...  he  ...  he  leaned  over 
...  so  far  ...  so  far  that  his  head  turned  a 
somersault ;    and  .  .  .  and ...  so  he  fell  .  .  . 

he  fell " 

He  was  strangled  by  emotion,  he  could  say 
no  more.     If  he  had  only  known ! 


XIII. 


THE    WRECK, 


THE    WRECK. 


It  was  yesterday,  the  31st  of  December. 

I  had  just  finished  breakfast  with  my 
old  friend  Georges  Garin  when  the  servant 
brought  him  in  a  letter  covered  with  seals 
and  foreign  stamps. 

Georges  said : 

"  Will  you  excuse  me  ?" 

"  Certainly." 

And  so  he  began  to  read  eight  pages  in  a 
large  English  handwriting,  crossed  in  every 
direction.  He  read  them  slowly,  with  seri- 
ous attention  and  the  interest  which  we 
only  pay  to  things  which  touch  our  hearts. 

Then  he  put  the  letter  on  a  corner  of  the 
mantle-piece,  and  he  said : 

"That  was  a  curious  story!     I've  never 


204  THE    ODD    NUMBER. 

told  you  about  it,  I  think.  And  yet  it  was 
a  sentimental  adventure,  and  it  happened 
to  me.  Aha !  That  was  a  strange  New- 
year's  Day  indeed!'  It  must  be  twenty 
years  ago,  since  I  was  then  thirty,  and  am 
now  fifty  years  old. 

"  I  was  then  an  inspector  in  the  Maritime 
Insurance  Company,  of  which  I  nm  now  di- 
rector. I  had  arranged  to  pass  the  fete  of 
New-year's  in  Paris — since  it  is  a  convention 
to  make  that  day  a  fete — when  I  received 
a  letter  from  the  manager,  directing  me  to 
proceed  at  once  to  the  island  of  Re,  where  a 
three-masted  vessel  from  Saint-Nazaire,  in- 
sured by  us,  had  just  gone  ashore.  It  was 
then  eight  o'clock  in  the  morning.  I  arrived 
at  the  office  at  ten,  to  get  my  instructions  ■ 
and  the  same  evening  I  took  the  express, 
which  put  me  down  in  La  Rochelle  the  next 
day,  December  31st. 

"  I  had  two  hours  to  spare  before  going 
aboard  the  boat  for  Re.  So  I  made  a  tour 
in  the  town.  It  is  certainly  a  fantastic  city, 
La  Rochelle,  with  a  strong  character  of  its 
own — streets  tangled  like  a  labyrinth,  side- 
walks running  under  endless  arcaded  galler- 


THE   WRECK.  205 

ies  like  those  of  the  Rue  de  Rivoli,  but  low, 
mysterious,  built  as  if  to  form  a  fit  scene  for 
conspirators,  and  making  an  ancient  and 
striking  background  for  those  old-time  wars, 
the  savage  heroic  wars  of  religion.  It  is  in- 
deed the  typical  old  Huguenot  city,  grave, 
discreet,  with  no  fine  art  to  show,  with  no 
wonderful  monuments,  such  as  make  Rouen 
so  grand ;  but  it  is  remarkable  for  its  se- 
vere, somewhat  cunning  look  ;  it  is  a  city  of 
obstinate  fighters,  a  city  where  fanaticisms 
might  well  blossom,  where  the  faith  of  the 
Calvinists  became  exalted,  and  where  the 
plot  of  the  '  Four  Sergeants '  was  born. 

"After  I  had  wandered  for  some  time 
about  these  curious  streets,  I  went  aboard 
the  black,  fat-bellied  little  steamboat  which 
was  to  take  me  to  the  island  of  Re.  It  was 
called  the  Jean  Guiton.  It  started  with  an- 
gry puffings,  passed  between  the  two  old 
towers  which  guard  the  harbor,  crossed  the 
roadstead,  and  issued  from  the  mole  built 
by  Richelieu,  the  great  stones  of  which  are 
visible  at  the  water's  edge,  enclosing  the 
town  like  an  immense  necklace.  Then  the 
steamboat  turned  off  to  the  right. 


206  THE   ODD    NUMBER. 

"  It  was  one  of  those  sad  days  which  op- 
press and  crush  the  thoughts,  tighten  the 
heart,  and  extinguish  in  us  all  energy  and 
force — a  gray,  icy  day,  salted  by  a  heavy 
mist  which  was  as  wet  as  rain,  as  cold  as 
frost,  as  bad  to  breathe  as  the  lye  of  a  wash- 
tub. 

"  Under  this  low  ceiling  of  sinister  fog, 
the  shallow,  yellow,  sandy  sea  of  all  gradu- 
ally receding  coasts  lay  without  a  wrinkle, 
without  a  movement,  without  life,  a  sea  of 
turbid  water,  of  greasy  water,  of  stagnant 
water.  The  Jean  Gttiton  passed  over  it,  roll- 
ing a  little  from  habit,  dividing  the  smooth, 
opaque  sheet,  and  leaving  behind  a  few 
waves,  a  little  chopping  sea,  a  few  undula- 
tions, which  were  soon  calm. 

"I  began  to  talk  to  the  captain,  a  little 
man  almost  without  feet,  as  round  as  his 
boat  and  balancing  himself  like  it.  I  want- 
ed some  details  about  the  disaster  on  which 
I  was  to  deliver  a  report.  A  great  square- 
rigged  three-master,  the  Marie  Joseph,  of 
Saint-Nazaire,  had  gone  ashore  one  night 
in  a  hurricane  on  the  sands  of  the  island 
of  Re. 


THE    WRECK.  207 

"  The  owner  wrote  us  that  the  storm  had 
thrown  the  ship  so  far  ashore  that  it  was 
impossible  to  float  her,  and  that  they  had 
had  to  remove  everything  which  could  be 
detached,  with  the  utmost  possible  haste. 
Nevertheless,  I  was  to  examine  the  situation 
of  the  wreck,  estimate  what  must  have  been 
her  condition  before  the  disaster,  and  decide 
whether  all  efforts  had  been  used  to  get  her 
afloat.  I  came  as  an  agent  of  the  company 
in  order  to  bear  contradictory  testimony,  if 
necessary,  at  the  trial. 

"  On  receipt  of  my  report,  the  manager 
would  take'  what  measures  he  judged  neces- 
sary to  protect  our  interests. 

"  The  captain  of  the  Jean  Guiton  knew 
all  about  the  affair,  having  been  summoned 
with  his  boat  to  assist  in  the  attempts  at 
salvage. 

"  He  told  me  the  story  of  the  disaster,  and 
very  simply  too.  The  Marie  Joseph,  driven 
by  a  furious  gale,  lost  her  bearings  com- 
pletely in  the  night,  and  steering  by  chance 
over  a  heavy  foaming  sea—'  a  milk-soup  sea,' 
said  the  captain — had  gone  ashore  on  those 
immense  banks    of  sand  which    make   the 


208  THE    ODD    NUMBER. 

coasts   of   this    region  seem    like   limitless 
Saharas  at  hours  when  the  tide  is  low. 

"  While  talking  I  looked  around  and  ahead. 
Between  the  ocean  and  the  lowering  sky  lay 
a  free  space  where  the  eye  could  see  far. 
We  were  following  a  coast.     I  asked : 

"  « Is  that  the  island  of  Re  ?' 

"'Yes,  sir.' 

"  And  suddenly  the  captain  stretched  his 
right  hand  out  before  us,  pointed  to  some- 
thing almost  invisible  in  the  middle  of  the 
sea,  and  said  : 

"  '  There's  your  ship  !' 

"  '  The  Marie  Joseph  V 

"'Yes.' 

"  I  was  stupefied.  This  black,  almost  im- 
perceptible speck,  which  I  should  have  taken 
for  a  rock,  seemed  at  least  three  miles  from 
land. 

"  I  continued : 

" '  But,  captain,  there  must  be  a  hundred 
fathoms  of  water  in  that  place  ?' 

"He  began  to  laugh. 

"  '  A  hundred  fathoms,  my  boy  !  Well,  I 
should  say  about  two !' 

"  He  was  from  Bordeaux.     He  continued  : 


THE    WRECK.  20Q 

" '  It's  now  9.40,  just  high  tide.  Go 
down  along  the  beach  with  your  hands  in 
your  pockets  after  you've  had  your  lunch  at 
the  Hotel  du  Dauphin,  and  I'll  engage  that 
at  ten  minutes  to  three,  or  three  o'clock, 
you'll  reach  the  wreck  without  wetting  your 
feet,  and  have  from  an  hour  and  three-quar- 
ters to  two  hours  aboard  of  her ;  but  not 
more,  or  you'll  be  caught.  The  farther  the 
sea  goes  out  the  faster  it  comes  back.  This 
coast  is  as  flat  as  a  bed-bug!  But  start 
away  at  ten  minutes  to  five,  as  I  tell  you, 
and  at  half-past  seven  you  will  be  aboard 
of  the  Jean  Guiton  again,  which  will  put  you 
down  this  same  evening  on  the  quay  at  La 
Rochelle.' 

"I  thanked  the  captain,  and  I  went  and 
sat  down  in  the  bow  of  the  steamer  to  get 
a  good  look  at  the  little  city  of  Saint-Martin, 
which  we  were  now  rapidly  approaching. 

"  It  was  just  like  all  the  miniature  seaports 
which  serve  as  the  capitals  of  the  barren 
islands  scattered  along  the  coast — a  large 
fishing  village,  one  foot  on  sea  and  one  on 
shore,  living  on  fish  and  wild-fowl,  vegeta- 
bles and  shell-fish,  radishes  and  mussels. 
14 


2IO  THE    ODD    NUMBER. 

The  island  is  very  low,  and  little  cultivated, 
yet  seems  to  be  filled  with  people.  How- 
ever, I  did  not  penetrate  into  the  interior. 

"  After  having  breakfasted,  I  climbed 
across  a  little  promontory,  and  then,  as  the 
tide  was  rapidly  falling,  I  started  out  across 
the  sands  towards  a  kind  of  black  rock 
which  I  could  just  perceive  above  the  sur- 
face of  the  water,  far  out,  far  down. 

"  I  walked  quickly  over  the  yellow  plain  ; 
it  was  elastic,  like  flesh,  and  seemed  to  sweat 
beneath  my  foot.  The  sea  had  been  there 
very  lately ;  now  I  perceived  it  at  a  distance, 
escaping  out  of  sight,  and  I  no  longer  dis- 
tinguished the  line  which  separated  the 
sands  from  ocean.  I  felt  as  though  I  were 
assisting  at  a  gigantic  supernatural  work  of 
enchantment.  The  Atlantic  had  just  now 
been  before  me,  then  it  had  disappeared 
into  the  strand,  just  as  does  scenery  through 
a  trap ;  and  I  now  walked  in  the  midst  of  a 
desert.  Only  the  feeling,  the  breath  of  the 
salt-water,  remained  in  me.  I  perceived  the 
smell  of  the  wrack,  the  smell  of  the  wide 
sea,  the  rough  good  smell  of  sea-coasts.  I 
walked  fast;  I  was  no  longer  cold;  I  looked 


THE   WRECK.  211 

at  the  stranded  wreck,  which  grew  in  size  as 
I  approached,  and  came  now  to  resemble  an 
enormous  shipwrecked  whale. 

"  It  seemed  fairly  to  rise  out  of  the  ground, 
and  on  that  great,  flat,  yellow  stretch  of 
sand  assumed  surprising  proportions.  After 
an  hour's  walk  I  reached  it  at  last.  Bulg- 
ing out  and  crushed,  it  lay  upon  its  side, 
which,  like  the  flanks  of  an  animal,  dis- 
played its  broken  bones,  its  bones  of  tarry 
wood  pierced  with  enormous  bolts.  The 
sand  had  already  invaded  it,  entered  it  by 
all  the  crannies,  and  held  it,  possessed  it, 
refused  to  let  it  go.  It  seemed  to  have 
taken  root  in  it.  The  bow  had  entered  deep 
into  this  soft,  treacherous  beach  j  while  the 
stern,  high  in  air,  seemed  to  cast  at  heaven, 
like  a  cry  of  despairing  appeal,  the  two 
white  words  on  the  black  planking,  Marie 
jfoseph. 

"  I  scaled  this  carcass  of  a  ship  by  the  low- 
est side  ;  then,  having  reached  the  deck,  I 
went  below.  The  daylight,  which  entered  by 
the  stove-in  hatches  and  the  cracks  in  the 
sides,  showed  sadly  enough  a  species  of 
long  sombre  cellar  full  of  demolished  wood- 


2  12  THE   ODD    NUMBER. 

work.  There  was  nothing  here  but  the 
sand,  which  served  as  foot-soil  in  this  cavern 
of  planks. 

"  I  began  to  take  some  notes  about  the 
condition  of  the  ship.  I  was  seated  on  a 
broken  empty  cask,  writing  by  the  light  of 
a  great  crack,  through  which  I  could  per- 
ceive the  boundless  stretch  of  the  strand. 
A  strange  shivering  of  cold  and  loneliness 
ran  over  my  skin  from  time  to  time ;  and  I 
would  often  stop  writing  for  a  moment  to 
listen  to  the  vague  mysterious  noises  in  the 
wreck :  the  noise  of  the  crabs  scratching 
the  planking  with  their  hooked  claws ;  the 
noise  of  a  thousand  little  creatures  of  the 
sea  already  installed  on  this  dead  body; 
the  noise,  so  gentle  and  regular,  of  the 
worms,  who,  with  their  gimlet-like,  grinding 
sound,  gnaw  ceaselessly  at  the  old  timber, 
which  they  hollow  out  and  devour. 

"  And,  suddenly,  very  near  me,  I  heard  hu- 
man voices ;  I  started  as  though  I  had  seen 
a  ghost.  For  a  second  I  really  thought  I 
was  about  to  see  two  drowned  men  rise 
from  the  sinister  depths  of  the  hold,  who 
would  tell  me  about  their  death.     At  any 


THE    WRECK.  213 

rate,  it  did  not  take  me  long  to  swing  my- 
self on  deck  with  all  the  strength  I  had  in 
my  wrists.  There,  below  the  bow,  I  found 
standing  a  tall  gentleman  with  three  young 
girls,  or  rather  a  tall  Englishman  with  three 
young  misses.  Certainly,  they  were  a  good 
deal  more  frightened  at  seeing  this  sudden 
apparition  on  the  abandoned  three-master 
than  I  had  been  at  seeing  them.  The 
youngest  girl  turned  round  and  ran ;  the 
two  others  caught  their  father  by  the  arms  ; 
as  for  him,  he  opened  his  mouth— that  was 
sole  sign  of  his  emotion  which  he  showed. 

"  Then,  after  several  seconds,  he  spoke  : 

"  'Aw,  mosieu,  are  you  the  owner  of  this 
ship  ?' 

" '  I  am.' 

" '  May  I  go  over  it  ?' 

"  '  You  may.' 

"  Then  he  uttered  a  long  sentence  in  Eng- 
lish, in  which  I  only  distinguished  the  word 
'gracious,'  repeated  several  times. 

"  As  he  was  looking  for  a  place  to  climb  up, 
I  showed  him  the  best,  and  lent  him  a  hand. 
He  ascended.  Then  we  helped  up  the  three 
little  girls,  who  were   now  quite   reassured. 


214  TIIE   ODD    NUMBER. 

They  were  charming,  especially  the  oldest, 
a  blonde  of  eighteen,  fresh  as  a  flower,  and 
so  dainty,  so  pretty  !  Ah  yes  !  the  pretty 
Englishwomen  have  indeed  the  look  of  ten- 
der fruits  of  the  sea.  One  would  have  said 
of  this  one  that  she  had  just  risen  from  the 
sands  and  that  her  hair  had  kept  their  tint. 
They  all,  with  their  exquisite  freshness, 
make  you  think  of  the  delicate  colors  of 
pink  sea-shells,  and  of  shining  pearls  rare 
and  mysterious,  hidden  in  the  unknown 
deeps  of  ocean. 

"  She  spoke  French  a  little  better  than 
her  father,  and  she  acted  as  interpreter.  I 
must  tell  all  about  the  shipwreck,  to  the 
very  least  details,  and  I  romanced  as  though 
I  had  been  present  at  the  catastrophe. 
Then  the  whole  family  descended  into  the 
interior  of  the  wreck.  As  soon  as  they  had 
penetrated  into  this  sombre,  dim-lit  gallery, 
they  uttered  cries  of  astonishment  and  ad- 
miration. And  suddenly  the  father  and  his 
three  daughters  were  holding  sketch-books 
in  their  hands,  which  they  had  doubtless 
carried  hidden  somewhere  in  their  heavy 
weather-proof  clothes,  and  were  all  begin- 


THE   WRECK.  215 

ning  at  once  to  make  pencil  sketches  of  this 
melancholy  and  fantastic  place. 

"  They  had  seated  themselves  side  by  side 
on  a  projecting  beam,  and  the  four  sketch- 
books on  the  eight  knees  were  being  rapid- 
ly covered  with  little  black  lines  which  were 
intended  to  represent  the  half-opened  stom- 
ach of  the  Marie  Joseph. 

"  I  continued  to  inspect  the  skeleton  of  the 
ship,  and  the  oldest  girl  talked  to  me  while 
she  worked. 

"  I  learned  that  they  were  spending  the 
winter  at  Biarritz,  and  that  they  had  come 
to  the  island  of  Re  expressly  to  see  the 
stranded  three-master.  They  had  none  of  the 
usual  English  arrogance;  they  were  simple 
honest  hearts  of  that  class  of  constant  wan- 
derers with  which  England  covers  the  globe. 
The  father  was  long  and  thin,  with  a  red  face 
framed  in  white  whiskers,  and  looking  like 
a  living  sandwich,  a  slice  of  ham  cut  in  the 
shape  of  a  head,  placed  between  two  wedges 
of  hair.  The  daughters,  like  little  wading- 
birds  in  embryo,  had  long  legs  and  were  also 
thin  — except  the  oldest.  All  three  were 
pretty,  especially  the  tallest. 


2l6  THE    ODD    NUMBER. 

"  She  had  such  a  droll  way  of  speaking, 
of  talking,  of  laughing,  of  understanding  and 
of  not  understanding,  of  raising  her  eyes  to 
ask  a  question  (eyes  blue  as  deep  water), 
of  stopping  her  drawing  a  moment  to  make 
a  guess  at  what  you  meant,  of  returning  once 
more  to  work,  of  saying  '  yes  '  or  '  no  ' — that 
I  could  have  listened  and  looked  indefi- 
nitely. 

"  Suddenly  she  murmured : 

"'I  hear  a  little  movement  on  this  boat.' 

"  I  lent  an  ear ;  and  I  immediately  distin- 
guished a  low,  steady,  curious  sound.  What 
was  it  ?  I  rose  and  looked  out  of  the  crack, 
and  I  uttered  a  violent  cry.  The  sea  had 
come  back ;  it  was  about  to  surround  us ! 

"  We  were  on  deck  in  an  instant.  It  was 
too  late.  The  water  circled  us  about,  and 
was  running  towards  the  coast  with  prodig- 
ious swiftness.  No,  it  did  not  run,  it  slip- 
ped, it  crawled,  it  grew  longer,  like  a  kind 
of  great  limitless  blot.  The  water  on  the 
sands  was  barely  a  few  centimetres  deep;  but 
the  rising  flood  had  gone  so  far  that  we  no 
longer  saw  the  flying  line  of  its  edge. 

"  The    Englishman    wanted   to   jump.       I 


THE   WRECK.  217 

held  him  back.  Flight  was  impossible  be- 
cause of  the  deep  places  which  we  had  been 
obliged  to  go  round  on  our  way  out,  and 
into  which  we  should  certainly  fall  on  our 
return. 

"  There  was  a  minute  of  horrible  anguish 
in  our  hearts.  Then  the  little  English  girl 
began  to  smile,  and  murmured  : 

"  '  So  we  too  are  shipwrecked.' 

"  I  tried  to  laugh  ;  but  fear  caught  me 
tight,  a  fear  which  was  cowardly  and  hor- 
rid and  base  and  mean,  like  the  tide.  All 
the  dangers  which  we  ran  appeared  to  me  at 
once.  I  wanted  to  shriek  '  Help  !'  But  to 
whom  ? 

"  The  two  younger  girls  were  cowering 
against  their  father,  who  regarded,  with  a 
look  of  consternation,  the  measureless  sea 
which  hedged  us  round  about. 

"And  the  night  fell  as  swiftly  as  the  ocean 
rose — a  lowering,  wet,  icy  night. 

"I  said: 

"  '  There's  nothing  to  do  but  to  stay  on 
the  ship.' 

"  The  Englishman  answered  : 

"'Oh  yes!' 


2l8  THE   ODD    NUMBER. 

"And  we  waited  there  a  quarter  of  an 
hour,  half  an  hour,  indeed  I  don't  know  how 
long,  watching  that  yellow  water  which  grew 
deep  about  us,  whirled  round  and  round,  and. 
seemed  to  bubble,  and  seemed  to  sport  over 
the  reconquest  of  the  vast  sea-strand. 

"  One  of  the  little  girls  was  cold,  and  we 
suddenly  thought  of  going  below  to  shelter 
ourselves  from  the  light  but  freezing  wind 
which  blew  upon  us  and  pricked  our  skins. 

"I  leaned  over  the  hatchway.  The  ship 
was  full  of  water.  So  we  must  cower  against 
the  stern  planking,  which  shielded  us  a  little. 

"  The  shades  were  now  inwrapping  us, 
and  we  remained  pressed  close  to  one  an- 
other, surrounded  by  the  darkness  and  by 
the  sea.  I  felt  trembling  against  my  shoul- 
der the  shoulder  of  the  little  English  girl, 
whose  teeth  chattered  from  time  to  time. 
But  I  also  felt  the  gentle  warmth  of  her 
body  through  her  ulster,  and  that  warmth 
was  as  delicious  to  me  as  a  kiss.  We  no 
longer  spoke  ;  we  sat  motionless,  mute,  cow- 
ering down  like  animals  in  a  ditch  when  a 
hurricane  is  raging.  And,  nevertheless,  de- 
spite the  night,  despite  the  terrible  and  in- 


THE    WRECK.  219 

creasing  danger,  I  began  to  feel  happy  that 
I  was  there,  to  be  glad  of  the  cold  and  the 
peril,  to  rejoice  in  the  long  hours  of  dark- 
ness and  anguish  which  I  must  pass  on  this 
plank  so  near  this  dainty  and  pretty  little 
girl. 

"  I  asked  myself, '  Why  this  strange  sen- 
sation of  well-being  and  of  joy  ?' 

"  Why  !  Does  one  know  ?  Because  she 
was  there  ?  Who  ?  She,  a  little  unknown 
English  girl  ?  I  did  not  love  her,  I  did  not 
even  know  her.  And  for  all  that  I  was 
touched  and  conquered.  I  should  have  liked 
to  save  her,  to  sacrifice  myself  for  her,  to 
commit  a  thousand  follies  !  Strange  thing  ! 
How  does  it  happen  that  the  presence  of  a 
woman  overwhelms  us  so  ?  Is  it  the  power 
of  her  grace,  which  infolds  us  ?  Is  it  the  se- 
duction in  her  beauty  and  youth,  which  in- 
toxicates us  like  wine  ? 

"  Is  it  not  rather,  as  it  were,  the  touch  of 
Love,  of  Love  the  Mysterious,  who  seeks 
constantly  to  unite  two  beings,  who  tries  his 
strength  the  instant  he  has  put  a  man  and  a 
woman  face  to  face,  and  who  suffuses  them 
with   a  confused,  secret,  profound  emotion 


2  20  THE    ODD    NUMBER. 

just  as  you  water  the  earth  to  make  the  flow- 
ers spring  ? 

"  But  the  silence  of  the  shades  and  of  the 
sky  became  dreadful,  because  we  could  thus 
hear  vaguely  about  us  an  infinite  low  roar, 
the  dull  rumor  of  the  rising  sea,  and  the 
monotonous  dashing  of  the  current  against 
the  ship. 

"  Suddenly  I  heard  the  sound  of  sobs. 
The  youngest  of  the  little  girls  was  crying. 
Then  her  father  tried  to  console  her,  and 
they  began  to  talk  in  their  own  tongue, 
which  I  did  not  understand.  I  guessed  that 
he  was  reassuring  her,  and  that  she  was  still 
afraid. 

"I  asked  my  neighbor: 

"  '  You  are  not  too  cold,  are  you,  miss  ?' 

"  '  Oh  yes.     I  am  very  cold.' 

"  I  wanted  to  give  her  my  cloak  ;  she  re- 
fused it.  But  I  had  taken  it  off,  and  I  cov- 
ered her  with  it  against  her  will.  In  the 
short  struggle  her  hand  touched  mine.  It 
made  a  charming  shiver  run  over  my  body. 

"  For  some  minutes  the  air  had  been 
growing  brisker,  the  dashing  of  the  water 
stronger  against  the  flanks  of  the  ship.     I 


THE    WRECK.  22  1 

raised  myself ;  a  great  gust  blew  in  my  face. 
The  wind  was  rising  ! 

"  The  Englishman  perceived  this  at  the 
same  time  that  I  did,  and  said,  simply: 

"  '  That  is  bad  for  us,  this—' 

"  Of  course  it  was  bad,  it  was  certain 
death  if  any  breakers,  however  feeble,  should 
attack  and  shake  the  wreck,  which  was  al- 
ready so  loose  and  broken  that  the  first  big 
sea  would  carry  it  off  in  a  jelly. 

"  So  our  anguish  increased  from  second 
to  second  as  the  squalls  grew  stronger  and 
stronger.  Now  the  sea  broke  a  little,  and 
I  saw  in  the  darkness  white  lines  appearing 
and  disappearing,  which  were  lines  of  foam ; 
while  each  wave  struck  the  Marie  Joseph, 
and  shook  her  with  a  short  quiver  which 
rose  to  our  hearts. 

"  The  English  girl  was  trembling ;  I  felt 
her  shiver  against  me.  And  I  had  a  wild 
desire  to  take  her  in  my  arms. 

"  Down  there  before  and  behind  us,  to  left 
and  right,  light -houses  were  shining  along 
the  shore  —  light -houses  white  and  yellow 
and  red,  revolving  like  the  enormous  eyes 
of  giants  who  were  staring  at  us,  watching 


2  22  THE    ODD    NUMRER. 

us,  waiting  eagerly  for  us  to  disappear.  One 
of  them  in  especial  irritated  me.  It  went 
out  every  thirty  seconds  and  it  lit  up  again 
as  soon.  It  was  indeed  an  eye,  that  one, 
with  its  lid  ceaselessly  lowered  over  its  fiery 
look. 

"From  time  to  time  the  Englishman  struck 
a  match  to  see  the  hour  ;  then  he  put  his 
watch  back  in  his  pocket.  Suddenly  he  said 
to  me,  over  the  heads  of  his  daughters,  with 
a  gravity  which  was  supreme  : 

"  '  I  wish  you  a  Happy  New  Year,  mbsieu.' 

"It  was  midnight.  I  held  out  my  hand, 
which  he  pressed.  Then  he  said  something 
in  English,  and  suddenly  he  and  his  daugh- 
ters began  to  sing  '  God  save  the  Queen,' 
which  rose  through  the  black  and  silent  air 
and  vanished  into  space. 

"At  first  I  felt  a  desire  to  laugh ;  then  I 
was  seized  by  a  strong,  fantastic  emotion. 

"  It  was  something  sinister  and  superb, 
this  chant  of  the  shipwrecked,  the  condemn- 
ed, something  like  a  prayer,  and  also  like 
something  grander,  something  comparable 
to  the  ancient  sublime  lAve  Ccesar  tnorituri 
tc  salutamus.'' 


THE    WRECK.  223 

"When  they  had  finished  I  asked  my 
neighbor  to  sing  a  ballad  alone,  a  legend, 
anything  she  liked,  to  make  ns  forget  our 
terrors.  She  consented,  and  immediately 
her  clear  young  voice  flew  off  into  the 
night.  She  sang  something  which  was 
doubtless  sad,  because  the  notes  were  long 
drawn  out,  issued  slowly  from  her  mouth, 
and  hovered,  like  wounded  birds,  above  the 
waves. 

"  The  sea  was  rising  now  and  beating  upon 
our  wreck.  As  for  me,  I  thought  only  of 
that  voice.  And  I  thought  also  of  the  si- 
rens. If  a  ship  had  passed  near  by  us  what 
would  the  sailors  have  said  ?  My  troubled 
spirit  lost  itself  in  the  dream  !  A  siren ! 
Was  she  not  really  a  siren,  this  daughter  of 
the  sea,  who  had  kept  me  on  this  worm-eat- 
en ship,  and  who  was  soon  about  to  go  down 
with  me  deep  into  the  waters  ? 

"  But  suddenly  we  were  all  five  rolling  on 
the  deck,  because  the  Marie  Joseph  had 
sunk  on  her  right  side.  The  English  girl 
had  fallen  across  me,  and  before  I  knew 
what  I  was  doing,  thinking  that  my  last  mo- 
ment was  come,  I   had   caught  her  in   my 


224  THE    ODD    NUMBER. 

arms  and  kissed  her  cheek,  her  temple,  and 
her  hair. 

"  The  ship  did  not  move  again,  and  we,  we 
also,  remained  motionless. 

"  The  father  said,  '  Kate  !'  The  one  whom 
I  was  holding  answered,  '  Yes,'  and  made  a 
movement  to  free  herself.  And  at  that  mo- 
ment I  should  have  wished  the  ship  to  split 
in  two  and  let  me  fall  with  her  into  the 
sea. 

"  The  Englishman  continued  : 

"  '  A  little  rocking  ;  it's  nothing.  I  have 
my  three  daughters  safe.' 

"  Not  having  seen  the  oldest,  he  had 
thought  she  was  lost  overboard  ! 

"  I  rose  slowly,  and  suddenly  I  made  out  a 
light  on  the  sea  quite  near  us.  I  shouted ; 
they  answered.  It  was  a  boat  sent  out  in 
search  of  us  by  the  hotel-keeper,  who  had 
guessed  at  our  imprudence. 

"  We  were  saved.  I  was  in  despair.  They 
picked  us  up  off  our  raft,  and  they  brought 
us  back  to  Saint-Martin. 

"The  Englishman  was  now  rubbing  his 
hands  and  murmuring: 

"  'A  good  supper  !     A  good  supper  !' 


THE    WRECK.  225 

"  We  did  sup.  I  was  not  gay.  I  regretted 
the  Marie  Joseph. 

"  We  had  to  separate,  the  next  day,  af- 
ter much  handshaking  and  many  promises 
to  write.  They  departed  for  Biarritz.  I 
was  not  far  from  following  them. 

"  I  was  hard  hit ;  I  wanted  to  ask  this  little 
girl  in  marriage.     If  we  had  passed  eight 
days   together,    I    should    have    done    so ! ' 
How  weak    and    incomprehensible    a    man 
sometimes  is  ! 

"Two  years  passed  without  my  hearing 
a  word  from  them.  Then  I  received  a  let- 
ter from  New  York.  She  was  married, 
and  wrote  to  tell  me.  And  since  then  we 
write  to  each  other  every  year,  on  New- 
year's  Day.  She  tells  me  about  her  life, 
talks  of  her  children,  her  sisters,  never  of 
her  husband  !  Why  ?  Ah  !  why  ?  .  .  .  And 
as  for  me,  I  only  talk  of  the  Marie  Joseph. 
That  was  perhaps  the  only  woman  I  have 
ever  loved.  No — that  I  ever  should  have 
loved.  .  .  .  Ah,  well !  who  can  tell  ?  Facts 
master  you.  .  .  .  And  then — and  then — all 
passes.  .  .  .  She  must  be  old  now ;  I  should 
not  know  her.  .  .  .  Ah  !  she  of  the  by-gone 
15 


2  26  THE   ODD    NUMBER. 

time,  she  of  the  wreck  !  What  a  creature ! 
.  .  .  Divine  !  She  writes  me  her  hair  is 
white.  .  .  .  That  caused  me  terrible  pain. 
...  Ah !  her  yellow  hair.  .  .  .  No,  my  Eng- 
lish girl  exists  no  longer.  .  .  .  They  are  sad, 
such  things  as  that ! 


THE    END. 


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